


Sometimes, You've Just Gotta Breathe

by Scavenge4Dreams



Series: As Easy As... [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Accidental friendly fire, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Steve, Hurt Tony, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Alternating, Smarm, Sort of a 5&1 (if you squint), Theme:Breathe, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1692674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scavenge4Dreams/pseuds/Scavenge4Dreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Breathe..."</p><p>* Five Times someone told Tony*<br/>*And one time he told them*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Battle-Kin

“Agent Barton, if you are not otherwise engaged, Sir has requested your presence in his workshop.” 

 

Clint tensed, adrenaline flooding his veins as he stilled mid pull-up to reply, “Trouble, JARVIS?”

 

“No, at least none more so than usual. I believe Sir merely wishes for your opinion on several of his newest _innovations_ ”

 

Clint exploded into action, dropping the several meter gap to the floor matt with a soft thud as he exclaimed, “Alright, Toy time!”, and rushed toward the elevator door.

***

“Doctor Banner, if you are not otherwise engaged, Sir has requested your presence in his workshop.” 

 

“…Hmm, - oh, Sorry JARVIS, what was that?” Bruce asked, looking a little abashed by his unawareness, borne of being deeply absorbed within his own scientific wonderland.

 

JARVIS sounded distinctly amused as he replied, “Not a problem, Doctor, I was just delivering a message for you to relocate your person to Sir’s workshop- forthwith.”

 

Saving the latest set of results, and setting aside the still viable samples, Bruce wiped his hands on a nearby cloth, and moved toward the door, answering, “Forthwith, huh? I imagine Tony put it a little less politely. ”

 

***

“Agent Romanov, if you are not otherwise engaged, Sir has requested your presence in his workshop.” 

 

Natasha looked up from the novel, replied, “Certainly, JARVIS” and placed the book neatly on her bedside table.  Sliding her feet into the ballet flats by her door, she left the room.

 ***

 “Thor, if you are not otherwise engaged, Sir has requested your presence in his workshop.”

 

Looking up from where the little silver toaster was nudging excitedly against his hand, the Thunder God replied, “Does time allow for my Pop-tarts to finish toasting?”

 

“That will be fine, there is no rush. At your earliest convenience is suitable.” JARVIS replied.

 

Petting the industrial, ten slice toaster with his massive hands, Thor all but crooned, “Thankyou. I would after all, hate so very much to deprive little Toasty here, of her sacred duty. ”

 

JARVIS’s voice was dry with amusement as he answered, “Of Course.”

***

“Captain Rogers, if you are not otherwise engaged, Sir has requested your presence in his workshop.” 

 

Looking upward, more out of habit than mistake, Steve answered, “Can I ask you again, to please call me Steve?”

 

“Certainly,” JARVIS replied, before concluding with, “Captain.”

 

Shaking his head in reluctant amusement, Steve let the recurring conversation rest, instead saying, “Let Tony know I’m on my way down, so he’d best scrabble for his protective gear. I caught him welding barefaced yesterday, and don’t really feel up to rehashing that particular argument yet.”

 

“You should consider yourself lucky, Captain…it wasn’t all that long ago that I’d have to try to explain to a drunk Tony Stark on occasion, the safety ramifications of welding naked…”

 

Steve snorted with mixed exasperation and amusement, hurrying his pace as he neared the elevator.

* * *

Tony started slightly as the vent above the far workbench collapsed open, the metal door left hanging at an odd angle.  He rolled his eyes as Clint dropped through, the archer landing cat-footed amidst coils of inner-wire, fragments of a red and gold chest plate and several tools and spanners of varying size and shapes.

 

“The vents are for…oh, I don’t know- _ventilation_ maybe?” Tony sniped as he flipped his goggles up to nest in his oil smeared tangles, eyeing Clint in much the same way one would a particularly ill-disciplined, but grudgingly adored pet.

 

Picking up the armoured plate to make room, Clint flopped into a seated position, feet dangling as he clutched the plate to his chest, answering with a shrug, “Meh, you say po-ta-to, I say Po-tah-to…”

 

“Nobody says Po-tah-to, Clint. Nobody. ” The billionaire deadpanned back, wiping his hands on his already filthy jeans.

 

“It’s To-ma-to, To-mah-to. You’re thinking Lord of the rings – Po-Ta-to, boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew…” Bruce explained as he wandered through the door, catching the desk chair Clint sent spinning his way with an errant kick, and dropped down onto it with a nod of thanks to the archer.

 

Interpreting the look that Clint was shooting over his shoulder, Bruce cautioned smoothly, “Just a word of warning, Tony Stark…if anything pokes, zaps or shocks me while I’m in here, I’ll have no issue setting Natasha loose on you.”

 

Turning slowly, Bruce wasn’t exactly surprised to see the engineer standing behind him, fingering the infamous ‘zappy thing’, quite obviously contemplating his options. Decision obviously made, Tony spoke in a measured tone, “Well, It’s a good thing Tasha’s no-”

 

“-not standing right behind you, just waiting for justification to try out that new move I was practising at last week’s training session.” Came the softly sweet tone of Natasha’s interrupting voice.

 

Innocently dropping the zapper onto the nearest workbench, Tony scurried around to the far side of the chair, putting Bruce between himself and the threat.

 

“Really? Of all the people in this room, you’re going to try and use _me_ as your human shield?” Bruce grinned, scooted the chair back against the wall, and simultaneously opened a direct path between Natasha and Tony.

 

Tony backed away from Natasha, who hadn’t moved, beyond adding a truly terrifying smile to her countenance.

 

“Who else I am I going to use, Brucey? Birdbrain’s on Tasha’s side- he’s always on Tasha’s side…even when Tasha doesn’t have a side, Clint’s on her side. We’re Science Bros’s! _And_ I’m Hulk’s favourite!  I mean, it’s mutual, after all- You’re my favour- THOR!” Tony ducked around behind the newly entered Norse God, disappearing into shadow, behind broad shoulders.

 

“What is the meaning of this?! Eye of the Hawk, are you once again terrorising our Iron-hearted compatriot!?”  Thor, by virtue of being Thor, thundered.

 

Jumping to his feet, Clint howled with mock offence, “Me! I’m not doing anything! I’m just sitting here- I’m innocent! No, for once, I really am!”

 

Ignoring the sniggers that met the less than angelic look Clint was sporting, Thor turned on the other two, one arm protectively corralling Tony behind him as he glared, only the sparkle in his eyes proving the fact that he understood the good-humour of the situation.

 

“Then it is the fair maiden or the good doctor who have harassed one so meek and gentle…for shame.”  

 

Thor spoke with such gravity, that for an instant, even Clint was speechless, before he erupted with a peal of choking laughter. Although whether this was caused more by Natasha being the ‘fair maiden’ or Tony’s, ‘meek and gentle’, was anyone’s guess.

 

Of course, that was when Steve entered the room, enhanced hearing having just picked up the tail end of Thor’s statement, and asked with a tone of reproach, “Tony – are you picking on Bruce again?”

* * *

 

Coming down from the high, as much caused by Steve’s unknowingly accurate question, as the Captains befuddled face, they’d tried to explain the past five minutes, they had finally turned to Tony expectantly.

 

Only to have him stare back expectantly.

 

“What?” Tony asked, sounding completely non-plussed about the situation.

 

Glancing at each other with mild concern, Bruce voiced what they were all thinking, “Uh, _you_ called us all down here.”

 

Physically startling, Tony looked back at them, eyebrow raising as he answered, “What, you mean this isn’t another intervention? Damn. That would have made a record four this month.”

 

Realising they’d been had, the others groaned, rolled their eyes or sniggered as was appropriate, while Tony grinned and darted around the workshop, gathering- _things_ -into his arms, speaking in a flurry of words all the while,  “No, I have – Stuff… Something for Tasha- actually, lots of things for Tasha. Something For Bruce. And for Hulk too, I guess. Clint, of course. Everyone.”

 

Eyeing the array of _things_ that Tony was dumping onto a hastily cleared workbench, Steve said, “No wonder you haven’t been sleeping…when on earth did you get time to build all this?”

 

Tony just shrugged, answering, “Oh, you know- genius at work and all that Jazz- really, it’s nothing. Here Tasha, these are yours.”, and saying so, he thrust a small black box in the assassins direction, gratified when she simply reached for it, without her usual cautionary checks.

 

Seeing that Natasha was engrossed in looking over the exterior of the box, searching for the hidden catch she knew had to be there somewhere, Tony tried to hand the next item to Clint, “Here Hawk, adjusta-”, only to be shushed by the archer as he leaned over Natasha’s shoulder to get a better look at what she’d received.

 

“Oh no, we’re not doing this ‘one person at a time’ rubbish – it’s not Christmas…just-” Tony was silenced by Steve’s hands intercepting the item he was thrusting at Clint. The Captain placed it gently back on the bench, and pulling the smaller man against his side, he pressed his lips to Tony’s forehead as he whispered, “Shh – I want to see too.”

 

Huffing with displeasure, Tony settled against Steve, waiting as Natasha found the tiny indent on the wooden box and opened it to reveal its dark velvet interior, and the two dozen delicate hairpins that lay within.

 

“God. Tony… these are- Are these _-_ I can’t possibly-” Natasha breathed, picking up one of the slender pins, admiring the subtle sparkle, visible even in the artificial light of the workshop.

 

“They’re a titanium alloy, near indestructible. The same as my suit actually. I just- I don’t like it when you go undercover, and your disguise only allows for a few knives or a gun- all of which should be confiscated at a search point or metal detector. I know; you hardly need conventional weapons to take someone down…just, peace of mind I guess.”

 

Natasha looked up from admiring the gorgeous pins, her fingernails scraping lightly over the tiny gilded lily at the tip of each one, a crystal clear or opaque black gem, at the centre of each flower, and asked, “A weapon- These…are these _weapons_ , Tony?”

 

“Wha- Of course they’re a weapon. Everything I ever make you will somehow keep you safer. Crush the black gem and you’ve got a poisoned dart – paralytic, fast acting, but no permanent damage. Crush the clear for the antidote. There’s a 5 second time lapse, to allow for accidentally poisoning yourself. Not that I think you’d ever do that- but…uh, also, if you know you’ll be using them, dart yourself with the clear before you go under, you’ll be impervious to the poison for 48 hours.”

 

Natasha was staring at him.

Actually, they were all staring at him.

 

“What?” was the smartest thing he could come up with, and then, “Here, these go with them”, and he dug through the small pile until he managed to locate the pair of strappy black stiletto heels.

 

“What do they do?” Clint asked, reaching out to take one of the heels, holding it aloft between his thumb and forefinger as he inspected it, no doubt looking for an acid shooting nozzle or the like.

 

“Let’s just say that tapping your heels together three times isn’t going to bring you home Tash…but it might give you the blades you need to get bring yourself home. Magnet activated, the heel detaches, and unsheathes into – wait for it… _Stiletto daggers._  And you’re still left with a perfectly stylish pair of flats.” Tony explained, demonstrating by tapping the heel still in his hand against the one in Clint’s, grinning when upon the third tap, both heels came away from the rest of the shoe as advertised.

 

“You’ve made her a high society spy kit! God- this is so much better than S.H.I.E.L.D’s crap _._ ” Clint praised, as he handed the heels off to a possessively reaching Natasha.

 

“Naturally” was Tony’s dry response, made only funnier by Bruce’s tandem deadpan of the same word.

 

“I’m not quite done – There’s…well, there’s a dress. It’s still rendering. The material is- complex. Essentially, it looks like Vera Wang, and wears like Kevlar.” Tony explained, his voice exited at the possibilities and applications of such a material, once he worked the bugs out.

 

“You’ve made her a bullet proof dress. A Bullet. Proof. Dress. You’ve- I can’t even begin. No more Budapest.” Clint breathed, his eyes wide as they met Natasha’s.

 

Brushing off the admiration, Tony replied, “One day, someone is really going to have to tell me about Budapest”, before neatly segueing, “But speaking of dresses and unique materials- here, Bruce. This one’s for you.”

 

Bruce looked up from where he been caressing one of Natasha’s hair pins, and eyed the dark green bundle of material in Tony’s hands with a wary look, “What- _Stretchy pants?_ ” he breathed.

 

It wasn’t true, despite his Zen like acceptance, that the regular bouts with near nudity didn’t bother Bruce. He was, and always had been, a rather modest man, but really, it seemed so inconsequential in the big picture, especially when that picture included turning into a vicious rage monster.

 

Also- no one had succeeded in formulating a material that could stretch with the needed elasticity, and still be able to regain its original form when Hulk became Bruce again.

 

“You probably should really thank Reed.  He… _loaned_ me a scrap of his spacesuit. I was able to recreate the bonds that allow the ridiculous stretch and rebound factor,” Tony explained, handing the pants to Bruce, but holding on himself, displaying how the material stretched out between them as Bruce pulled away, and then snapped back into place as Tony let go.

 

Getting caught up in the science, as scientists were want to do, Tony continued, “The elasticity in these is just phenomenal. It’s a mix of components- uh, elastin, rubber, silicon…You should get a look at the reverberation facto-”

 

Unable to contain himself, Clint burst in, “Um, _Breathe_ Tony, you’re turning blue, and that’s really not your colour.”

 

Tony glared at the interruption, but before he could come up with an appropriate response, that would no doubt involve Steve, Steve’s uniform, or most probably both, Bruce looked up at his friend, and replied, “Forget Reed, I think I’d rather thank you.”

 

Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Tony mumbled a reply, “It was nothing- I mean, it wasn’t nothing…the science is _breathtaking_. But, I – It was just.  Benefit of having a genius for a friend.”

 

“Family”, corrected Bruce, “Benefit of having a genius _in the family._ ”

 

Clint, not used to being ignored for so long, broke in with, “And Bruce would know all about that, after all, it takes one to know one. Now, genius…my turn?”

 

It should have sounded rude, inconsiderate or greedy, but coming from Clint’s mouth, it was just complimentary and cheerful, and Tony conceded, pulling the largest item from the dwindling pile, and handed it off to the archer.

 

Clint stared at it for several minutes, his keen eyes taking in every inch of smooth hard plastic, each precise angle and edge, before asking, “Okay, I give – what is it?”

 

With a grin, Tony took the item back, and with a few deft movements, he snapped the plastic out into a full sized recurve bow, strung and ready for use.

 

“A travel bow!” Clint crowed, reaching for the weapon, which Tony handed back to the ecstatic archer.

 

With an assessing eye, Tony took in the measurements of the lethal folding weapon, and answered, “Well, yes, I suppose so. I mean, it’s perfectly accurate, and possibly more flexible than your regular bow, although not as strong, and it’d certainly store well.”

 

Steve, who had also immediately assumed the bow was a compact travelling version, asked, “You guess so? What was it actually intended to be?”

 

Grabbing several arrows from the bench, almost eradicating the pile of gifts, Tony gestured for Clint to nock one of the arrows, explaining, “If it was just you and I, I’d get you to shoot me…but with Captain Tight–pants here, I guess I’d better play it safe.”

 

Kissing the slight scowl from Steve’s lips with a playful nip, Tony grinned as the Captain softened, indicating that Clint should shoot one of the holographic targets lined up against the far wall.

 

The arrow flew straight, as everyone had known it would, after all, with Stark written all over the manufacturing and Barton behind the mechanics, how could it not?  It hit the wall, but instead of the solid thud indicating a hit, a spray of purple powder spewed out in a small circle around the ‘kill zone’.

 

Whooping, Clint turned to Tony, exclaiming, “What the hell was that?!” surrendering the bow up to Natasha’s exploring hands as he waited for an explanation.

 

“That, my dear Katniss, with our intrepid leader’s approval of course…is your new training bow. Full range of moves, completely accurate to your regular bow, with the exception of the folding mechanism…and the arrows. No bruising, blood or maiming required. You’ll simply be ‘powdering our noses’, I’ve tested it right up to the break point, meaning you literally couldn’t shoot it any harder- and the most your victims, i.e. us, feel, even at point blank range, is a slight tingling.”

 

Clint had been unable to immerse himself fully in their training with his preferred weapon, having arrows flying about was deemed too much risk to the other members of the team. He’d been relegated to about half his usual ability’s in the training room, and although Clint got in a lot of hours, _a lot of hours,_ on the range…it wasn’t quit the same.  This would revolutionize their whole training regime.

 

If Steve approved it.

 

 _When_ Steve approved it.

 

Clint had faith in Tony.

 

Moving on before it occurred to Steve to question why Tony was so confident that the bow was harmless, and how he’d come to that conclusion, Tony handed the last item on the bench to Thor.

 

The Thunder God seemed honestly shocked to be receiving something. This wasn’t the first time Tony had done the gift-rounds, but it was the first time Thor had been included in the bestowal. After all- what does one build an indestructible, old as the eons, literal royal, literal god?

 

Apparently, Tony had found something.  

 

Thor looked at the small white item, dwarfed by his hand, taking in the rubbery plastic casing over hard plastic. Noting the familiar rectangular shape, and familiar placement of buttons on its surface and about the body.

 

“Not that it isn’t a fine gift, that I shall cherish always, but why have you given me a Controller for the most mighty Wii, My Iron-hearted brother?” Thor asked as he inspected the controller.

 

“Squeeze it.” was Tony’s peculiar reply.

 

Thor did, and was immediately devastated as the plastic crumpled beneath his hand, the controller crushed into an unrecognisable mess by godly strength.

 

Tony blanched, reaching urgently for the destroyed plastic and exposed wiring, exclaiming, “Fuck! Just- that was. Godda-”

 

Thor, upon realising that this wasn’t the intended outcome was immediately and profusely apologetic, most upset that he’d destroyed Tony’s hard work, “…Please accept my most humble of apologies, I did not intend such slight. I have destroyed yet ano-”

 

And then Tony laughed.

 

Under the watchful eyes of his five curious friends, Tony whirled about his workshop, searching over and under, between and beneath… until finally he emerged successful, handing Thor, something that appeared to be exactly as he’d given him a moment ago, a white Wii controller, and the accompanying order to, “Squeeze it.”

 

Thor looked dubiously at the small controller, but his eyes did pick up subtle differences. The controller itself was slightly larger, and fit more naturally into his hand, and the buttons were larger to compensate for his finger size.

 

He squeezed.

 

The controller stayed in one piece.

 

Thor squeezed harder.

 

The controller stayed firmly undestroyed.

 

Thor squeezed some more.

 

The controller finally groaned beneath his hand.

 

Thor looked at Tony, Tony nodded with a grin, and Thor SQUEEZED.

 

The controller admitted defeat, and cracked roughly down the middle.

 

The five looked to Tony, waiting for his reaction to the rudely ravaged tech, which had cost god knows what and wasted who knew how many of Tony’s hours.

 

“That actually held up much better than I thought it would”, at the completely disbelieving looks he was reviving, Tony added, “ _Hello, God of Thunder._ That’ll get us up to a rate of probably one controller per week, rather than one per level. I’ll add it to the manufacturing list, big guy.”

 

Thor looked immensely pleased, despite the broken plastic dangling from his hand, as he replied, “It is with great honour that I call you battle-kin, for your generosity and compassion will surely become legendary in the ages to come.”

 

Tony looked completely gobsmacked at the high praise, and although he wasn’t the only one, his was the only mind lingering on the words of the statement, rather than the phrasing.

 

“Um. It was just a Wii controller”, was his intelligent reply.

 

Thor was quick to refute his dismissal, “No, it is the meaning of the gift- the ‘thought that counts’. Countless times has the game of Wii frustrated me due to its mortal trappings, and here you have made attempt to help me evade this frustration, despite your free time being extremely limited, and so very precious. ”

 

Tony opened his mouth, for whatever reason, but Thor spoke over him, and no one denied the thunder god the right to speak. “More than that, you have provided me a home. A place to build the family that we have chosen. No matter what you say, I will forever count you as a god among men, Tony Stark…more so than I, for being _just a man_ at your soul-level.”

 

Tony fish-lipped, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly, because what did one say to that?  What did one say to such a complete load of troll dun-

 

“Just say ‘you’re welcome’, Tony”, a voice very much like Steve’s, whispered in his ear.

 

Probably because it actually was Steve’s voice, and Tony had to wonder how long he’d been standing there, wordlessly staring at Thor with horror in his eyes, for Steve to feel the need to prompt him.

 

Like hell he was going to accept such ridiculous praise though, and so instead, he offered his own gratitude, muttering, “Um, _thanks?_ ”  _Thanks for living here, thanks for putting up with me, thanks for caring. Thanks for not seeing the worst._

 

And one by one, they slowly departed, taking gifts and leaving final words of praise and gratitude that were brushed off with equal fervour.

 

Until finally, only Tony and Steve remained.

* * *

 

“So- what about me, where’s my gift?” Steve asked, as the vent was pulled shut above their heads by one booted foot, Clint no doubt disappearing into the deep shadows of the systems inner workings.

 

Tony turned from where he was examining the split remains of Thor’s Wii controller, replying, “Uh, I didn’t- I mean, it’s not quite re-”

 

Moving to lean against the bench-top beside his lover, Steve dropped a kiss to willing lips as he answered, “I’m joking, Tony.”

 

Smiling at his own foolishness, Tony pressed more deeply into the kiss before pulling back to explain, “I knew that. But I am sorry if you felt left out when everyone else was getting something…I just haven’t quite-”

 

Sighing inwardly, Steve cut his lover off to reassure him, “I can hardly feel left out, not when you give me considerably more of your time and brainpower than any one of them- It’s your company I enjoy Tony. The fact that you are a legitimate genius who builds things that save the world is just icing on the cake”

 

Sniggering, Tony said, “I built a Wii controller Steve. It’s hardly going to be world saving.”

 

“ _Tony-_ you arm the _Avengers._ And we save the world on a weekly basis.Can’t help you with the Wii… _although with Thor holding the controller_ …” Steve reasoned, releasing Tony to his _science_ , moving to sit on the threadbare old couch in the corner, reaching blindly underneath for his sketch book and pencils.

 

“Are you going to be long? – I don’t mind, but I’ve been meaning to start a new sketch, just as soon as I get a few uninterrupted hours. ” Steve asked, flipping through the book, hovering over mostly completed images, and the next blank page as he waited for an answer.

 

None was forthcoming, and Steve smiled, flipped to the blank page and set pencil to paper.

* * *

 

_The image in his mind had translated itself into charcoal with perfection. All solid lines, shadowed fill and dark, sparkling eyes. A broad sweep here, and carefully smudged there, Tony stared out from the page beneath the artist’s hands, armour-less, in both the literal and figurative way. It wasn’t finished, but then, perhaps it never would be, for its inspiration wasn’t finished either, and also may never be._

_But it was all that was Tony, to the best of Steve’s ability._

Looking up, Steve noted that almost four hours had passed since he’d looked down, and he wondered at the ability time had to simply fly.  It was nearing 9pm, and Steve knew for a fact that Tony hadn’t slept the night before.

Getting to his feet silently, Steve carefully pushed his sketchbook back under the couch, sure that Tony knew its hiding place, but uncaring.

Padding across the room, he approached his lover’s turned back, noting the faint smell of grease and oil drips on the floor about Tony’s feet, and was thankful for the shoes gracing said feet.  

Tony was tinkering with something, although tinkering possibly wasn’t the right word to apply to a billionaire genius who armed the world’s foremost monster, alien and villain fighting team.

No _, Tony definitely tinkered._

Tonight, it was one of the armour gauntlets, this one not yet red and gold, indicating that it was a prototype.  Steve wondered briefly, about the purpose of the test, how its results would affect Ironman, and subsequently the rest of the team, but gave it up after only seconds, as there were too many possibilities to even contemplate.

Humming quietly under his breath, mostly to alert Tony to his presence, Steve settled his hands on tense shoulders, kneading gently until he felt the smaller form relax against him, and he brought his arms down to wrap around Tony’s waist.

Tony, still mostly absorbed by whatever engineering feat he was performing, was none the less, both accommodating, and appreciative of the warm lips that tracked a moist path down his throat, tilting his head slightly to give Steve’s superior height more reach.

The teeth that set about worrying at the sliver of revealed muscle at the apex of his t-shirt, rent a low, involuntary moan from Tony’s throat, and Steve smiled as he soothed the stinging area, knowing full well, and equally pleased by the knowledge, of the dark mark that would blossom there.

Bringing his left hand up, he buried nimble fingers in filthy tangles, firm pressure relieving stress that hadn’t even had time to be realised yet, and Tony’s eyes fluttered closed, as he leaned into the half massage/ half caress.

Steve’s other hand, resting low at Tony’s stomach, managed to roam its way beneath his ACDC shirt, and finding flat warm skin, it began to meander upwards over the hard plain of muscle.

Large fingers glanced the side of the reactor housing, sliding over smooth glass that almost hummed beneath his fingers, and in the space between one heartbeat and the next, Tony went from pliable and relaxed, to absolutely rigid beneath his hands.

And before Steve could even open his mouth, before he could ask, reassure or apologise, Tony came to life in his arms, a wildcat that struck out with anything and everything possible, fists, feet…and most terrifyingly- the active repulsor gracing his left hand.

The first blast barely bit into his left flank, Steve managing to turn out of its path at the last possible second.      

_The second he took to the side of the head._

* * *

* * *

* * *

 


	2. Battle-Torn

Tony had been totally immersed in the science, by the creating, but as soon as those hands had settled on his shoulders, he'd been there.

 

He'd been there, in the moment, with Steve's arms around him and Steve's lips hot where they trailed passion across his skin. 

 

He'd been there, surrounded by warmth, coming alive beneath gentle, welcome hands.

 

And then just a glancing touch against cool glass and humming metal, innocent, but unexpected.

 

And suddenly he was elsewhere.

***

 

Cruel taunting words echoed in his ears, stale, rotting memories of a friend turned foe, of trust broken by betrayal.  And Tony knew what was coming, what always came next- grasping, hurting hands that would caress his makeshift heart, and then rip it from his chest.

 

Driven by desperate need, horrific memory and violent terror, Tony clenched his eyes to welcome darkness, and fought back.  The force of the blast lifted Obadiah Stane clear from the floor, and propelled him across the room.

 

Only, when he opened his eyes, it was Steve who lay in a crumpled heap, downed by Tony's own hand.

 

***

Steve lay where he'd fallen, on his back, legs and arms akimbo in an awkward sprawl, his face twisted away.

 

Tony waited for him to move, to yell, or to retaliate. Waited desperately, with silent crushing fervour, knowing on some instinctive level, that if Steve just _moved_ everything would be fine.

 

And then Tony’s eyes picked up the red that had started to soak through white cotton, pooling beneath blond hair, creating a morbid scarlet halo, shining sickly beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting.

 

_Steve wasn't moving, and there was blood everywhere._

 

And Tony couldn't stop the thought from bubbling through his mind - _'I've killed Captain America"._

 

A harsh giggle ripped its way from his throat, because what the fuck did he care that he'd killed Captain America?

 

He'd killed Steve.

 

Killed Steve.

 

_Steve._

 

And whatever distant shred of rational thought Tony had been clinging to, until that very instant- shattered.

 

"I-I've killed Steve."

 

Saying it aloud seemed to open whatever gates had been holding back the deluge, and pure panic surged forward, flooding his mind and body with shock and adrenaline, cutting off all avenues of higher reasoning.

 

He'd killed Steve.

 

Tony had- he'd _murdered_ Steve.

 

Breath whistled through his clenched teeth, and he tucked his head against his chest, if only to avoid seeing the liquid that was Steve's lifeblood, seeping along the floor of his workshop like a slow moving river.

 

Tony’s vision was swamped in red, even with his eyes closed.  Something was screaming at the back of his mind, begging him to pay attention, to listen to reason.  A tiny shred of rationality, fighting to be heard, beseeching him to calm down, get a grip- to just shut up for one fucking second and get to Steve's side.

 

Help him.

Help Steve.

Save Steve.

 

But Tony could hear nothing over the sharp whistle of choking air through clenched teeth, the rushing of his own blood as it roared in his ears, and the echo of a repulsor blast.

* * *

 

“Dr Banner, your presence is required immediately! Medical emergency in workshop one.  ” JARVIS’s voice came from all around, loud and insistent in his demand for assistance.

 

Bruce, not bothering to take time-lapse precautions with the materials he was working with, was already on his feet, headed for the door as he spoke, “What happened. Who-”

 

“Sir,- Sir has shot Captain Rogers. With a repulsor. In the head.” JARVIS’s reply was audibly shocked, as if the AI was having trouble believing the words, even as he spoke them.

 

Bruce froze, just for an instant, sure he must have misheard, but knowing he hadn’t. “Why the- No, never mind that just yet. Is Steve alive?” the physicist asked as he rushed towards the rapidly opening elevator doors.

 

“The Captain is still breathing, although the nature of his genetic makeup does not allow me a comparison of base levels, so I cannot determine his health”, the AI explained as the door hissed shut behind Bruce, and the elevator began an almost brutally paced decent.

 

“And Tony? Is he hurt? Compromised?”, Bruce asked, stealing himself against hearing an answer he didn’t want to know.

 

JARVIS’s answer was prompt and professional, but Bruce would have to had to have been deaf to miss the clear anxiety beneath the crisp tone, “Sir’s vitals are erratic, all signs indicating rapid onset of severe shock. He is also completely unresponsive to my verbal queries and all efforts to calm him.”

 

Breathing deeply to soothe his impatient nerves, Bruce asked, “The others? Have you t-”

 

The elevator doors opened and Bruce barely missed sideswiping Natasha as he barrelled into the hall, his question answered both by the assassin’s presence and JARVIS’s responding answer, “I have yet to inform Thor, as he has just departed to be with Dr Foster, and is consequently, out of contact for an estimated 43 minutes.  Agent Barton’s expected arrival is only seconds behind that of you and Agent Roman- Please, _hurry._ ”

 

The clear octave drop, and tangible fear on that final word, spurned Bruce to greater speeds, and within seconds, he was shoving through the half open workshop door.

 

_Barely managing to stop before he tripped over Steve’s sprawled body, unable to avoid walking bloody footprints as he stumbled._

* * *

 

Bruce could hardly believe he’d been in this very same workshop only hours before. The smiling and laughter was certainly gone, eradicated by spreading blood, and a cloying anticipation of tragedy and loss. 

 

He felt the Hulk stir, all-consuming rage suddenly expanding, mingling with the unfamiliar feeling of grief as the creature within him sought to understand what had happened.  Bruce clamped down mercilessly- he _had_ to remain in control.

 

For Steve- and for Tony.

 

Already dropping to his knees beside Steve’s body, Bruce searched the room with his gaze, finally pinpointing the slumped form of his fellow scientist against the far wall.

 

Bruce all but stumbled, despite being seated.

 

If Steve was injured, then Tony was _broken._  

 

Bruce suddenly realised that the raspy, hissing whistle he’d written off as irrelevant, assuming it was a mechanical victim of further firefight- was in fact his best friends breathing.

 

Or more pointedly – rapidly approaching ‘lack thereof’.

 

Tony was white. Not just ‘pale’ or ‘pasty’, but an ashen, ghostly white, as if all the blood had simply been leached from his face.  Bruce was sure that those brown eyes were blown huge and dark, yet he couldn’t see them behind tightly clenched eyelids.  It was the trembling though, and the breathless, hitching _slurring_ attempts at speech that truly frightened Bruce.

Natasha dropped to her knees besides him, drawing Bruce’s attention away from one cause for concern, and back to the other. Reaching for the first aid kit Natasha had fetched, Bruce applied pressure to the side of Steve’s head, and indicated Natasha do the same to his flank, trying to slow the bleeding.

 

Both Steve and Tony needed immediate attention, Steve bleeding out before him, and Tony possibly on the verge of a shock induced breakdown, if not already there.  

 

Bruce was torn.

 

He personally had to see to Steve, as he truly was the only one on the team with more than rudimentary field training. Natasha and Clint used an incredible amount of common sense, and were extremely creative in their medical forays, and Tony _was_ a genius, who’d essentially installed a pacemaker into his own upper torso …but none of them had anything beyond basic knowledge.

Natasha was the issue – he desperately wanted to send her to Tony’s side, but with Steve bleeding out from two possibly life threatening wounds, he needed all the hands he could get.

 

Tony though, with his decreased lung capacity, and mutilated chest cavity, wasn’t really the ideal candidate to promote hyperventilation as a coping mechanism.

 

They both needed more help than he had people to provide.

 

Bruce was just about to make a truly tough decision, possibly to the detriment of one of his friends, when the vent on the far side of the room popped open, and Clint dropped to the floor.

* * *

 

Clint hadn’t even had time to _look up_ , let alone stand up or look around, before Bruce’s _Doctor in charge_ voice drew his immediate and undivided attention.

 

Although Steve’s bloody body between the scientist and Natasha certainly risked pulling it away.

 

“Clint, you’ve got to get Tony to calm down, before he causes damage to the arc housing or his lungs.” Bruce ordered, before turning his attention fully to the blood soaked bandages beneath his hands, trusting Hawkeye to do as he’d asked.

 

It was Steve with the blood, and decked out on the floor and _the blood._

Clint blinked, because _Tony?_

 

And then he looked up, across the room, and his eyes were inevitably drawn to the slumped form of Tony by the far wall.

 

“Shit”, seemed to sum it up quite nicely.

***

Clint knew that Tony had shot Steve; JARVIS had informed him of that much…but he had no idea why.

 

In some deep, dark recess of his mind, he’d entertained the thought, just for a spilt second- _‘Could the pair have had a fight, and Tony have lost control? Could it have been deliberate?’_

But now, seeing the utter despair rolling off Tony in smothering waves, Clint knew, without a doubt, that even contemplating the idea of Tony maliciously hurting Steve was ludicrous.

 

And he could see what Bruce was worried about. The closer Clint got, the more pronounced Tony’s difficulties became. Sweat was beading across waxen skin, and his chest was heaving with the strain of trying to breathe in air that just wouldn’t come.  The billionaire’s lips were moving, but his voice had given up fighting against the hitched gasps, leaving empty words in its absence.  

 

Dropping to his knees, Clint wondered what to do, what to say.

_Everything will be okay._  Except, looking over to where Bruce was intensely inspecting the wound at Steve’s temple, Clint didn’t know if he could promise that, and have it be true.

 

“Stark? – Tony?” Clint called, easing himself down into a cross-legged position opposite Tony, his voice quiet and firm as he continued, “Tony, I need you to list-”

 

Clint, leaning in close, attempting to connect with Tony, unexpectedly heard the ghost of a barely breathed sentence tumble from trembling lips, and felt his own throat tighten in realisation.

 

_Because Clint was sure he’d hear the words – “Killed” and “Steve”._

Tony wasn’t panicking because he’d inadvertently harmed Steve.

 

Tony was drowning in shock and devastation- because he thought he’d killed his lover.

 

Clint grabbed Tony by the shoulders, squeezing firmly in an attempt to ground the other man, and spoke fervently, “You think you killed Steve?! He’s not dead! Tony –You didn’t kill him. Steve’s not dead!”

* * *

 

Tony didn’t feel the jagged agony that had set itself alight behind his ribs, blazing fingertips scorching his lungs with every gasping breath. Didn’t feel the lightheaded buzz that formed behind his clenched eyed, or the way he swayed where he sat.

 

Didn’t feel anything other than the emptiness inside, that was eaten away by crushing guilt and grief.

 

Tony didn’t hear JARVIS, informing him that help was on the way. Didn't hear the AI's almost frantic requests for him to calm down, didn't hear the door sweeping open and Bruce rushing in, Natasha on his heels.

 

Didn't hear anything other than his own voice, over and over- _You killed him. You killed Steve._

 

And then- he did hear something.  Someone.

 

Not his own voice, but saying something so very similar, that he heard anyway,that he _deserved_ to hear _._

_Killed_ and _Steve_

 

Clint’s voice.

 

And then, because he was listening, because he _deserved_ to hear what he’d done… he also heard something else.

 

“-didn’t kill him. Steve’s not dead!”

 

_Not dead._

Tony’s eyes flew open, looking beyond Clint, to where Bruce and Natasha were crouched over Steve-

 

– Steve, who’s chest was rising and falling.

* * *

 

Clint huffed a breath of pure relief when Tony’s eyes suddenly swept open, and riveted themselves on his very much alive partner.

 

Clint had expected that to be the end of it.

 

No longer mistakenly thinking himself the murderer of the man he loved, Tony would calm down and let Clint get his ass across to Steve’s side where he belonged.

 

Crisis averted.

 

Which was why he was in no way prepared for Tony’s eyes to blow huge and almost black around the pupils, and for the gasping, whistling breath to hitch once more, catch and then just- _stop._

“Tony! Godammit- You can’t do this!” Clint tried calling, tried gently shaking the unmoving form, but Tony remained unresponsive.

 

When in doubt, shout for help…and Clint yelled for the one person who always had his back, “Nat, Tony’s unresponsive- I told him Steve wasn’t dead and he jus- He’s not breathing!”

 

Natasha looked up from where she was crouched by Steve’s newly bandaged side, and with a quick glance to Bruce, she hurried across the room and knelt in front of Tony.

 

“Stark?” she queried, but received no response.  

 

“Tony Stark, look at me – Look At Me.”, her voice was full of steel, brooking no refusal, and Tony blinked once, slowly, as if having to remind himself how to do so, before sluggishly looking up to meet her eyes.

 

Natasha continued, “You didn’t kill him. Whatever happened here, we’ll fix it – but you need to calm down and breathe.”

 

Tony stared at her, unblinking, unmoving and unbreathing.

 

“ **Breathe** ”, she bit out again, forceful and sharp like a bullet.

  
The word pierced his frozen mind, and Tony drew in a harsh, gasping breath, suddenly disconcertingly aware of the fire that had engulfed his body.  He winced, and curled in on himself, pulling away from the pain that increased with each subsequent breath.

 

Natasha’s keen gaze raked over him, and Tony wondered if she found him as wanting as he himself did, and never more so than at that particular moment.

 

The assassin spoke, quietly, firmly, but not unkindly, “Steve is alive. I’d like to keep him that way.  Bruce needs my help, but I’m not going back over there until you tell me you’re okay.”

 

Tony managed a nodding gesture, one hand finding her arm, and pushing ineffectually.

 

“ _Tell_ _me_ you’re okay, Tony.” Natasha pushed, waiting for Tony to truly connect with them in the here and now, not wanting to risk him falling back into himself as soon as she left.

 

Tony managed to whisper “’m ‘kay...”, in a harsh croaky voice that essentially disproved his statement, but Natasha was seemingly satisfied.

 

Turning to Clint, she said, “Take him upstairs, get him cleaned up – Thor should return shortly, and I doubt he will begrudge helping you. We’ll be up just as soon as Steve can be moved.”

 

Getting to her feet to return to Bruce’s aid, the Natasha stilled, and turning, looked back down into remorseful, troubled brown eyes.

 

She didn’t know what had happened that had led to this. Didn’t know what Tony had done. What Steve had done.

 

But family was family, and no matter what had happened, and who was at fault, _this_ was her family. Natasha would offer what little comfort she could.

 

Pressing a gentle kiss to Tony’s forehead, she simply said, “Everything will be okay.”

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the update delay- real life suddenly turned to *Blugh*. I'm sure most of you can relate ;I
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed - I will admit, I found this chapter difficult to write, so I hope it doesn't read as stilted or rushed. 
> 
> Until tomorrow,
> 
> Happy Reading all :)


	3. Battle-Weary

As Natasha hurried back to Bruce’s side, Clint’s gaze swept over their other certified genius, the one left in his charge.   

“You heard the lady. Come ‘n, let’s get you upstairs…” he murmured, pulling a nodding Tony to his feet, steadying the man when he wavered slightly.

After allowing a second or two for Tony to gather himself, Clint eased a hand around the engineer’s forearm, and giving a slight tug, Tony started to shuffle across the room.

Clint frowned, perplexed by the other man’s unusually cooperative temperament.  He was familiar with the ‘Tony Stark’ who was, by his very nature, an exasperatingly independent and infuriatingly contrary individual.  

He allowed though, that shooting your own lover in the head was reason enough for some atypical behaviour.

Of course, it was at that moment that they reached the door, and Clint suddenly found himself trying to pull a distinctly _unwilling_ Tony from the workshop.

“What-?” he started to ask as he turned back, but fell silent when he caught sight of the new wash of anxiety in brown eyes that were riveted on Steve’s fallen body, just slightly to the left side of the doorway.

Clint had the suspicion that this was the first time Tony had actually let himself _look_ at Steve. Whether that was on purpose, or purely by accident, he had no idea. Whatever the case, it was clear that Tony _hadn’t_ been ready for the full on, up close visual of his blood soaked partner.

He had to admit though, watching Tony push past what he’d done, to see _what he’d done_ , was one of the most impressive things he’d ever seen. Guilt and blame were ruthlessly buried beneath wary hope, as Tony took in the slowing of the bleeding and the steady rise and fall of Steve’s chest.

He watched as Tony observed Bruce’s steady hands- _frantically busy_ , but steady. There was no panic, no shake of supressed fear. The physicist even stilled for an instant, looking up to offer Tony a warm reassuring smile, before he returned to his patient.

Clint saw the instant Tony truly realised that he _hadn’t_ killed his lover.

He also recognised the instant Tony started to think about planting himself, shaking and breathless panting and all, at Steve’s side.

Clint could see the exhaustion wrapping about bowed shoulders like a mantle, and knew that if Tony didn’t lie down soon, he’d be falling down.

Stepping in between Tony and the target of his worried gaze, Clint spoke softly, “I know you’re worried. But you need to trust Bruce and Natasha. Crazily competent Tasha, and ridiculously clever Brucey- You _know_ they’ve got Steve.  I also need you to trust me, when I say you need to come with me. Can you do that?”

Tony didn’t answer, just stared _through_ him, as if his gaze was still locked on the other half of his soul.

Clint was just starting to wonder if he would have to physically shove Tony out of the room, when eventually, after an eternity of seconds, brown eyes suddenly met his, clear and burning bright with pain.  

Clint saw what he needed to within those eyes, and with a thankful look heavenward, he gently propelled Tony from the workshop, hearing the door slide closed behind them with a soft _snick._

* * *

 

It was like a marionette that’s strings had been cut suddenly.

Two steps down the hall, and Tony just _slumped_ against him. 

Clint stumbled under the unexpected burden, barely managing to catch the billionaire in an ungainly half-embrace, and he eased the almost dead-weight against the support of the closest wall.

As he dropped to a crouch and looked up into _open eyes_ , Clint snapped his mouth shut on the intake of breath he’d planned to use to call for Bruce. He’d been sure that Tony had passed out, emotional and physical fatigue having taken their toll, but the unfocused and glassy gaze said that Tony hadn’t collapsed, he’d just… _switched off._

Clint recognised the vaguely distant stare, blank and vacantly dull; as that of one who’d just needed to _hide,_ from himself, as well as everyone else.

It concerned him, seeing such a lacklustre and hollow sheen over that which usually housed his dynamic and exuberant friend, but Clint had half been expecting something like this.

The initial shock and absolute devastation of what Tony thought he’d done had slowly been fading. And, no doubt encouraged by Steve’s apparent good prognosis, Tony must have looked inwardly at what he actually _had_ done.

And of course, the issue remained that _he’d shot Steve._

Clint could understand wanting to avoid _that_ thought for as long as possible. Of course, Tony’s usual method for dealing with things he wanted to avoid, was to hide out in his workshop…where he had just left his lovers bloodied body.

Which certainly explained why Tony had sought an alternative, and fled inward.

Clint deliberately decided not to worry about Tony’s rather creepy detachment just yet, and instead hoped the genius would come back out willingly. That no one would have to drag him out kicking and screaming- as was sometimes the case when Tony was hiding in his workshop.

Although, he thought, as he pulled Tony’s arm over his shoulder, wrapped his own about Tony’s waist, and started to push them both upright; it certainly made his task of getting Tony upstairs in one piece, that much harder.

***

‘That much harder’ became ‘a hell of a lot harder’ halfway down the hall.

Clint knew he was physically strong; his upper body strength in particular was well above average, courtesy of the hefty draw-weight of his bow, but bearing up under the 160lb, dead-weight of Tony Stark, without an additional adrenal-fuelled ‘boost’ was truly testing that strength.

It would be so much easier if he could just toss Tony over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.  More commonly known as a ‘fireman’s hold’.  But with the arc reactor front and centre, Clint wasn’t quite game, especially when there was no emergency to call for such a risky measure.

Clint wondered if he should have called Natasha for help, but decided that she had enough on her plate, helping Bruce with Steve. He could deal with was one measly genius and an elevator ride- he _would._

So, Instead, he slowly plodded along, focusing on just putting one foot in front of the other.

No one said he did it quietly.

“You weigh a god-damn tonne. We must look ridiculous. Of course, you’re probably used to looking ridiculous, but me? …. How the hell are you this heavy? …. When they said ‘He aint heavy, he’s my brother’ they were not. Referring. To. You….. JARVIS, the elevator. Can you-?” he cut himself off with a breath of relief, as Tony suddenly decided to hold his own weight.

But only for a second, before he wilted against Clint again, causing the archer’s knees to buckle and both of them to tumble headfirst towards the still closed elevator door.

Clint heard the soft ding that indicated the door was opening, but still clenched his eyes shut as they fell, knowing that hitting the floor wasn’t going to feel much better than the door would have.

Twisting to put himself under Tony as best he could, Clint waited for the inevitable, and no doubt very painful ‘thud’ that would indicate they were grounded.

Only it didn’t come.

Instead, a dismayed gasp sounded from within the tight confines of the small elevator, and a pair of ridiculously strong arms caught fast beneath him, halting their decent with nothing more than a gentle rustle of material.

Clint looked up into the concerned face of their resident god, and like everything else Thor did, his concerned face was…impressive, in its sheer wattage.

He looked stricken.

“Uh. Thanks.” was Clint’s attempt at reassuring.

It was then that Thor seemed to notice the fact that Tony had yet to move, speak or react in any way to the near topple, and his concerned face morphed into his alarmed face.

“What ill has befallen our Iron-brother that he be so lifeless?” he asked, in what was a truly considerate attempt at an undertone, as he set Clint back to his feet, while simultaneously easing the seemingly inconsequential weight of Tony into his own hold.

The archer gratefully relinquished his burden as he spoke, “JARVIS, penthouse please.”

JARVIS didn’t answer verbally, but the elevator shifted minutely beneath their feet and Clint nodded his thanks, before turning to answer Thor’s question.

Only, Tony was already having enough difficulty facing what had happened, without having to hear ‘Tony shot Steve’ spoken aloud.  Clint eyed the empty brown eyes, and felt a hint of concern rise within him, for as much as he knew that withdrawal was Tony’s go-to coping mechanism, the fact that the genius hadn’t even _flinched_ when he’d almost been body slammed into the ground, worried him.

“He’s just- he needed to retreat for a while. There was an incident in the workshop. Everyone is going to be okay. I’ll explain later”, the archer said, deliberately vague. He understood the fact that Thor wanted to know what was going on with his Midgard-family, but his eyes begged the blond to accept the insubstantial explanation for now, glancing pointedly at Tony.

Thor looked between the pale, trembling man in his arms, and the piercing look Clint was giving him and immediately nodded his acceptance. He wasn’t going to cause any more harm to sate his own burning curiosity, even one resulting from concern.

The elevator chimed softly as it stopped on the upper penthouse floor, and Clint led the way down the hall, almost grinning when Thor picked Tony up with nary a whisper of complaint, and carried him the remainder of the way.

And then he remembered why Thor was carrying Tony, and any urge to grin faded immediately.

* * *

 

It was odd, walking into Tony’s bedroom like he had a right to be there. It seemed such a private, personal space, that it felt like a deep violation as he entered.  Clint suspected that part of the reason was because, on some level, he knew this room was more ‘Steve&Tony’s’, rather than just Tony’s.

Thor followed closely behind him, and looking around, Clint shrugged before pushing an assortment of clothes off the nearest seat, clearing a space to sit the still unresponsive billionaire, while they worked out the best way to get him cleaned up.

Thor bent slightly, easing Tony onto the seat, and stepped back slightly, leaving a hand on one bowed shoulder for support, should Tony topple forward.

The two looked down at him, and Clint sighed at the way those brown eyes just stared vacantly back.

Tony was, putting it quite simply, _filthy._

Grease and oil caked his hands and was coagulated in his hair, and somehow, his face had ended up streaked with black that hardly complimented the dark circles beneath his red-rimmed eyes.

He really needed to be scrubbed red in a scorching shower.

Actually, what he really needed was Steve, but unable to provided that, and unwilling to put a water-phobic Tony under a shower head, especially whilst being simultaneously traumatised, Clint decided on the tried and true, ‘damp cloth’ method.

Armed with wet cloths purloined from the adjoin bathroom, which Clint had very tentatively entered and searched, he and Thor each reached for one of Tony’s arms, only for Thor to stop with a curious hum.

Clint stared.

How the hell had he missed the delicate electrical framework that wrapped itself about Tony’s left hand and wrist; all the wires curling over to nest behind the palm-repulsor, still settled beneath half curled fingers.

***

“Ease it slightly to the left…I think that bit disconnects from the main section.” Clint explained, pointing to the tiny red wire that jaunted off to the far left of Tony’s hand by itself.

Pursing his lips as his large fingers fumbled with the delicate wiring and circuitry, Thor answered, “Perhaps we had best call the good doctor for assistance-”

“Bruce is with Steve. Part of the ‘I’ll tell you later’- This can’t be that difficult. Tony put it on, there must be an easy way to get it off”, Clint replied as he pulled gingerly at another section of the device.

“I would suggest we leave it until Tony is back with us, however I would not recommend him sleeping with such a volatile device on his person…” the god added, searching the repulsor for a release button or mechanism, despite such a search having failed on the two previous attempts.

Clint snorted at Thor’s unknowingly ironic statement, earning himself a frown from the god, and a “More, ‘I’ll tell you later’- yes?”

Clint nodded, opening his mouth to give a little more explanation about his reticence to speak about this in front of Tony, when the man in question suddenly breathed in- a deep, shuddering breath that physically moved within him.

Clint’s gaze snapped up, and he knew instantly that the ‘lights were back on’ within blazing brown eyes. Eyes which were glaring daggers at the delicate technology surrounding his hand.

With a half bitten off snarl, mingling with a badly suppressed sob, Tony’s whole visage lit with what could only be descried as rage, and he clawed at the repulsor, demanding, “Off! Get it off! Get It Of-”

Thor caught the scrabbling hands between his own, instantly quashing any further attempt Tony would have made to remove the repulsor. Mindful of the sharp edges of newly torn metal-structure work, Thor deftly stripped away the device, the removal effortless now that he wasn’t concerned about damaging the fragile technology with his too strong hands.

“Be calm my friend, it is removed.” Thor murmured quietly in his low rumbling voice that was naturally soothing. He eyed the hands that were still cradled with infinite care between his own, noting the thin lines of blood that marked the shallow furrows Tony had rent into his own skin.

“I would not see you harm yourself, when I can so easily be of assistance…” he added, but didn’t continue beyond the mild reprimand, able to see how close Tony was to the edge.

Brown eyes blinked slowly as Tony calmed, all the wrath of desperate anger seeping out of him, leaving him reserved and distant, although both men were glad when he didn’t withdraw completely again.

Determined to hold Tony in the here and now, Clint held his damp cloth up for emphasis and asked, “Do you feel like showering?”

Tony stared at him for an instant, perhaps contemplating, perhaps only processing the request, before eventually he shook his head, replying quietly, “No.”

With a shrug, Clint reached for his hand and swiped the cloth over it, rubbing a little at a stubborn patch of grease.

“Leave it”, the genius said, although his voice lacked his usual conviction, and he couldn’t be bothered pulling away.

Clint ignored the request, continuing his ministrations, as Thor’s mirrored them on Tony’s other arm. The archer replied, “Natasha said to get you cleaned up. You want to go against Nat?”

Tony just shook his head.

It took a good ten minutes to wipe away the majority of the stains marring Tony’s hands, and Thor was remarkably tender as he swept a clean cloth over the grease that streaked Tony’s face, leaving behind clean, if extremely pale skin.

Clint was relieved that Tony didn’t retreat within himself again, and hoped that their gentle care was helping rather than hindering.

He almost grinned when Tony pulled an epic bitch-face when Thor brandished a comb.

He really did grin when Tony all but leered at him when he handed the man a pair of pants, and asked if he needed any help.

Clint really hoped it was because they _were_ helping, and not just Tony pulling his ‘Tony Stark’ mask on, while hiding the festering pain behind it.

* * *

 

Clint and Thor retreated to the side of room, to give Tony at least an illusion of privacy as he quickly changed into the sleep pants.  

While they were over there, Clint took the opportunity to briefly explain; his voice as quite as he could make it, although he was sure Tony knew what they were talking about.

“Tony and Steve where in the workshop, alone. JARVIS called us, - all we really know is that for whatever reason…Tony shot Steve in the head with the repulsor.”

Thor blanched, and Clint knew that whatever the God had feared, been imagining…hadn’t even come close.

His worried gaze flew across the room to Tony, privacy be damned, and Thor asked, “Steve?”

Clint started to answer, “Going to be okay, as far as Natasha and Bruce where indicati-”

“I need to know. I need to find out for sure”, came Tony’s voice from right beside them, and for once it was the assassin jumping at the unexpected appearance.

“You need to get into that bed – you’re dead on your feet.” Clint replied, and Thor apparently agreed with him, if the Asguardian’s gently shepherding Tony backwards towards the bed was anything to go by.

“No! I- I _need_ to- Clint, _please._ ” Tony pleaded, trying to push back against the God of Thunder, which showed true determination, if little sense.

They could put that on his tomb stone when the man killed himself, Clint thought.

“I’ll go. I’ll see Bruce and Natasha and make sure Steve is going to be okay. You need to lie down.” Clint compromised, and Tony must have seen the resolve on the archer’s face, because he backed down.

***

Tony slumped into the mound of pillows, finally calming, if not actually relaxing.  Noticing the fine trembling that Tony couldn’t supress, Thor dragged the blankets out from beneath the genius, and draped them over him, although he was sure that a chill wasn’t the reason for the shivering.

He was also sure that if he could look in the right places, he would see the suffocating shadows that clung to the other man’s soul.

Thor knew instantly and without doubt, that whatever had happened down in that workshop that had resulted in Steve getting hit, had been a complete accident.

He knew with equal certainty that Steve would see it the exact same way, and that Tony, most decidedly _would not._

Thor had seen the way Tony assumed guilt that was not his to bear, in the same way that others absorbed praise that didn’t belong to them.  He carried guilt like a second skin, wrapped tightly around him in smothering layers that no one could peel away.

But one should still try.

“Do not assume blame that has not been given to you. Steve will not take kindly to you stealing this guilt, I should think.  You would be best not _thinking,_ not _wondering_ , and not _imagining_. Wait until you _know._  Just breathe and have faith. In Steve, if you cannot find it in yourself.”

Thor had known Tony wasn’t ready to hear his words, and had known that it wasn’t Thor he would need to hear them from when he was ready. So he felt no offence or rejection as, without a word, Tony turned his back toward him, and curled a little more beneath the blanket.

Something out of place caught his eye about the movement though, and after a beat Thor suddenly gasped.  Reaching out, he drew the blankets down slightly, revealing sickening shades of black and blue bursting across Tony’s upper back and shoulders.  

With a hand that trembled with effort to be gentle, Thor traced a finger across the hideous bruising, rumbling, “What has happened to you, Tony Stark?”

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have trouble writing Thor. Also- Natasha.   
> Solution - blind you with Clint o_0
> 
> -Hope you enjoyed-
> 
> Happy Reading :)


	4. Battle-Broken

JARVIS was…conflicted.

 

It was not a sensation he was used to experiencing.

 

Indeed, beyond the occasional manifestation of what humans would deem concerned ‘anger’, and the odd rush of unimaginable ‘pride’, JARVIS existed in a comfortable state of ‘contentedness’, underlined by a near-constant hum of ‘affectionate exasperation’.

 

Captain Rogers had confessed to suffering much the same.

 

The common denominator in both their lives?

 

Tony Stark.

***

 

JARVIS felt that a curious bond had formed between himself and the captain- one based on mutual respect and shared interests.

 

 Specifically, JARVIS had come to trust that Steve Rogers was equally invested in the continued welfare and happiness of Tony Stark, and therefore counted the Captain among his most firm allies.

 

And now Steve Rogers was injured, at the hand of an emotionally traumatised Tony Stark, and Jarvis was conflicted.

 

Not though, by the steadily growing friendship between himself and the Captain, as one might imagine.

 

After all, it wasn’t a matter of choice. There were no sides to take.

   

His prime directive, both that of his initial programing and of his own volition, was to protect one Anthony Edward Stark.

 

It was the one thing JARVIS would _never_ compromise on,

 

***

The conflict boiled down to a matter of perspective.

 

JARVIS placed Tony above all else. He always strive to give Tony what he needed, even when it wasn’t what he wanted. He endeavoured to ensure that Tony was healthy. JARVIS always tried to protect Tony, even from himself on more than one occasion. 

 

And yet, a conflict.

 

Tony was hurt.

 

Emotionally, the trauma of having shot Steve, too heavy a weight to bear. And physically, bruised and battered.

 

Yet Steve was hurt so much worse.  At least physically.

 

And whilst this was a non-issue, because as far as JARVIS was concerned, any harm or danger to Tony would always exceed the importance of anyone else’s… the fact remained, that Tony _needed_ Steve.

 

Needed Steve to function properly. To eat regularly and drink something other than coffee. To sleep. To smile.

 

Tony needed Steve to be okay. And JARVIS needed Tony to be okay.

And therefore, JARVIS needed Steve to be okay.

 

JARVIS needed Dr Banner to tend to Steve. To make Steve okay.

 

But Tony was still hurt.

 

And _he_ needed Dr Banner as well.

 

JARVIS was…conflicted.

 

It was not a sensation he was finding particularly pleasant.

* * *

 

Conflict resolution required more knowledge, in-depth evaluation and finally, a decision.

 

Information first. And best to go straight to the source who would have the most comprehensive awareness of the situation.

 

“Dr Banner, may I enquire as to the Captain’s condition?” JARVIS asked.

 

Bruce startled slightly from his crouched position beside the bed, his fingers stilling on the stark white of the bandage he’d almost finished securing. The AI’s voice had caught him by surprise, breaking his attention from his task. He realised that JARVIS hadn’t said a word since he’d alerted them to the incident earlier.

 

Wondering at the prolonged silence, Bruce threw a quick glance at Natasha, but received only an elegant shrug in answer.  Assuming that Tony had something to do with it, Bruce stepped away from his patient, and responded quietly, “Lucky. His condition is so, so lucky.”

 

JARVIS waited for Bruce to expand, but the physicist remained silent, and the AI prompted, “Doctor?”

“Sorry. He just- It was a full power shot, and I’d bet my blood that Tony was tinkering with the new model he was talking about last week. The fact that it didn’t take Steve’s head clean off…One of them must have moved or turned at the last second, and it was more a passing shot, than a point blank hit”, Bruce trailed off with a disbelieving but extremely grateful shake of his head.

 

It seemed Captain Rogers had been exceptionally fortunate, and JARVIS was glad - not just for Steve’s sake, but for Tony’s as well. But the information being gathered was irrelevant to his needs. “And his condition, Doctor?” he prodded gently.

 

Bruce looked thoughtful for a moment, studying the steady rise and fall of Steve’s chest, and the colour starting to seep back into pale skin. He answered, “Serious, but stable. He’s lost a lot of blood. _Too much_ , had he been just about anyone else. The serum has already started to repair the worst of the damage, and I think he should be back to his usual self within a few days…a week at the outside.”

 

“You seem, oddly optimistic, doctor, considering the situation…” JARVIS trailed off, not critical, but certainly inquisitive.

 

“Well. It won’t be a picnic, that’s for sure. He’s going to hurt. A lot, especially for the first few hours after he wakes up…but, Steve is one tough SOB, and I know he’ll pull through”, Bruce replied, determinedly.

 

Information gathered.

 

Evaluation:

Captain Rogers was not in dire need of further medical attention, Tony wasn’t at risk of losing Steve. JARVIS wasn’t at risk of losing Tony. Tony’s physical injuries where now the priority.

 

Decision:

“If leaving Captain Rogers in Agent Romanov’s care is suitable, then I would request that you see to Sir’s injuries directly”

***

Sir’s injuries.

 

Sir’s… _Tony’s._

_Tony’s injuries._

_Surely Tony wouldn’t have let himself get shuffled out of the room if he wa…except, not only would he…._

 

But apparently?  He actually had.

 

Already on his feet, Bruce lingered with hesitation only long enough to catch the ready nod that Natasha sent his way and then he was moving toward the door, speaking, “Tony’s injured as well? JARVIS, what the hell happened in that room?! Did Steve and Tony…”

 

Bruce hadn’t really thought about it, at least, not beyond ‘Tony shot Steve. Save Steve’, and now, as he tried to imagine the situation in which Tony Stark would attempt to blow off Steve Rogers head, he was coming up absolutely blank.

 

But if Tony was injured as well… if Bruce had let him leave, hell, _sent him_ from that room…

 

It had required an incredibly powerful device for Tony to bring Steve down. 

 

All Steve would have needed were his fists.

 

But Bruce didn’t believe that. Wouldn’t believe that. _Couldn’t believe that._

The idea of Steve deliberately raising his fists to anyone off the battle field was a stretch.

 

Steve raising them to Tony was ludicrous.

 

“There was no altercation, Doctor. My sensors showed calm one instant, and erratic the next…Sir was the only aggressor.”

 

JARVIS’s reply settled whatever tiny voice had been screaming impossibilities in Bruce’s head. He waited impatiently as the elevator ascended, asking, “What injuries? Is he awake? Responsive?”

 

“Thor noticed bruising across Sir’s upper back and alerted me. From his reaction, it seemed rather severe, although not life threatening. Sir is awake, he has not lost consciousness at any point, although he has been extremely withdrawn. His vital signs are fluctuating wildly, but that seems to be more consistent with emotional distress, rather than physical pain”, Jarvis explained.

 

_He’d just shot his lover._

Bruce figured that emotional distress was a given, but the physical injuries were not, and he intended to find out what the hell had happened.

* * *

 

The apartment suite was silent when Bruce entered, which was odd, given the fact that Tony Stark was somewhere in the vicinity.

 

He assumed that Clint and Thor would have had the good sense to get Tony to lie down, and started to make his way toward the bedroom. Thor appearing in the doorway proved his assumption correct, although the god’s worried face did little to calm Bruce’s anxiety.

 

It took a lot to shake the usually affable and gregarious Asgardian, but finding his friends or ‘Midgard-kin’, in danger or distress was always a sure method. It simultaneously stunned and warmed Bruce, that his mere presence swept relief over Thor’s face.

 

Thor stepped out of the room properly, to meet him halfway across the lounge area, his voice a low rumble “Our good Captain?”

 

Bruce smiled, answering “Not as tragic, nor as life threatening as first thought, although certainly serious. I believe he will be okay.”

 

“In your capable hands, I doubt he could be much else. I fear for this one though,” Thor gestured over his shoulder as he continued, “He is- devastated is not the correct word, but I find it eludes me. Quietly distraught, perhaps. He shoulders more guilt than even the strongest back can stand under.”

 

Raking a hand through sweat damp hair, Bruce exhaled as he answered, “He shot Steve. I imagine devastated is not that far from the truth. I’ll talk to him, if he’ll let me.  Where’s Clint?”

 

Thor gave him an inquisitive look, “It was not the Hawk who informed you of our need for your presence up here?”

 

Bruce shook his head, replying, “No, JARVIS told me…I must have missed Clint on the way up. Probably because I took the elevator and halls like a normal person, rather than crawled through the buildings intersystem like that overgrown vent-rat.”

 

Thor gave a light chuckle at the attempted humour, although the evening’s ordeals left it ringing hollow.  He answered, “Ah, yes, I had not thought of that. I shall venture forth and find him- perhaps we should seek the evenings repast, for hunger continues even when the desire to eat wanes”,

 

“Good idea. If you could keep Natasha company, she’s sitting with Steve. I don’t foresee any problems, but he is…well, very large, and she is very small. If you could also- There was a lot of blood in Tony’s workshop.”

 

As understanding dawned, Thor nodded his immediate agreement, and said, “Consider it taken care of. Will you require any assistance here?” he asked.

 

Bruce looked thoughtful for a second before answering, “No, Tony is reticent of help at the best of times…and this is hardly the best of times.”

 

With a nod, Thor slipped from the room, and Bruce continued into the bedroom.

* * *

 

Tony was actually _in_ the bed, which stunned Bruce for an instant.

 

He had experienced the dubious pleasure of dealing with an injured Tony on numerous occasions, much to his (and everyone else’s) displeasure…and the other man was the _epitome_ of ‘terrible patient’.  

 

In fact, he was worse than even that.

 

‘Take it easy’ _did not_ translate into ‘design and manufacture a solar powered lawn-mower’, no matter _what_ language Tony was speaking.

 

Pain meds had to be forced on him, and either resulted in a hyper genius bouncing all over the tower, and more pointedly, _not taking it easy,_ or Tony sulking for hours. None of the team had decided yet if Tony in a sulk leant more towards heart-breakingly adorable or tragically pathetic.

 

Whatever he was advised (forced) to do, Tony did just the opposite. Most assumed it was the spoilt genius being contrary, while some simply attributed it to an overwhelming lack of common sense. 

 

Those closest to him however, were beginning to suspect that Tony’s reticence had more to do with not knowing how to deal with the unfamiliar, and were more indulgent of his whims because of it.

 

But Tony being _in bed_ was so far out of the norm that Bruce didn’t know what to think for a moment.

 

But then – this _whole situation_ was about as far from normal as things got.

***

Approaching the bed slowly, not wanting to startle Tony if he’d somehow managed to fall asleep, Bruce spoke quietly, “Tony? Are yo-”

 

“Steve?!”

 

Bruce froze as the genius suddenly levered upright, brown eyes bright and glassy when they met his. For a second he wondered if Tony had somehow mistakenly thought he was Steve, and then he realised that Tony was _asking_ him.

 

Of course Tony would want to know about Steve, but Bruce was, frankly, more interested in the odd way Tony was absently holding his right arm in tight against his chest.

 

Moving closer, Bruce answered Tony’s question briefly, “Steve’s going to be okay-”, before continuing onto what was troubling him, “Let me see your side…arm or ribs?”  

 

Tony started, looking non plussed by the question, glancing down at his body and consciously relaxing his arm as he answered, “What? Huh, oh…I’m fine. Steve? He’s really going to- I didn’t?”

 

Bruce stared at Tony, his usually kind eyes flint hard and assessing, but Tony didn’t even flinch. Unlike the genius’s usual squirrelly behaviour regarding avoiding his medical issues, he seeming completely unaware of his unwillingness to discuss his injuries.

 

Seeing that he wasn’t going to get anywhere near Tony without discussing Steve first, and taking into account the fact that the billionaire didn’t seem to be in any great amount of pain, physically at least, Bruce took the path of least resistance. 

 

Sliding into a seated position on the edge of the bed, his body aligned with Tony’s, Bruce sighed, and then answered, “You didn’t kill Steve. You blindsided him, took some skin and muscle…a lot of blood. But he’s going to be fine.”

 

Tony stared back at him, and Bruce realised that Tony was trying to gauge if he was _telling the truth._ It made him wonder how many times people had told Tony what he’d wanted to hear, only for it to all fall down around him later.

 

“Steve is in a medically assisted sleep right now, in the guest room off the workshop floor. Ask JARVIS.” Bruce added, knowing that even if Tony doubted Clint, Thor, Natasha and Bruce… he wouldn’t doubt JARVIS.

 

There was a minute flutter of something across Tony’s face, and Bruce almost laughed when he belatedly recognised the other man’s rarely used “duh!” face. It gave him hope that Tony would recover from the shock of what had happened. 

 

“J?” Tony voiced, not needing to say more.

 

JARVIS answered with such rapidity, that Bruce suspected the AI had been craving some way to help, some usefulness. “Captain Rogers is alive and healing in the room Dr Banner indicated. I can show you-”

 

“No! No- that’s. Thanks J.” Tony cut JARVIS off, and Bruce wondered at the desperate refusal at the offer of visual proof, but before he could ponder long, Tony was speaking again.

 

“Is he- Did I… his face?” he asked, gesturing at his own face, before dropping his head into his hands and saying, “Did I burn his face off?”

 

Bruce wondered at the fixation. He’d suspect it was vanity, Tony not wanting to have ruined his lover’s fantastic looks. But even if Steve _didn’t_ heal back to perfect each time, Bruce was 100% sure that it wasn’t Steve’s looks that held Tony’s true, lasting affection.

 

Not knowing the reason behind the question didn’t stop him from answering, “His ear, and a chunk of hair…the rest of the damage is mostly to the far side and back of his head…he’s still pretty.”

 

Tony shook his head, “No. That’s not- I mean. I just. Steve shouldn’t have to see his face burnt off and scarred everywhere he looks once he wakes up…”

 

“Until he heals. And even if it had been his face…Steve isn’t vain. And he’d know it was only temporary.” Bruce didn’t mention that if it had been his face, Steve would be dead.

 

Tony fidgeted, sitting up further in the bed with an unconscious wince that set Bruce’s teeth on edge.

 

Picking at the blanket, Tony was silent for a second, before he breathed, so quiet that Bruce had to strain to hear, “I- I just don’t want to give him any more reason to hate me every time he sees himself.”

 

“Oh Tony. Steve’s not going to…” Bruce tried to comfort him, tried to help him _see_.

 

But Tony wasn’t ready to listen, wasn’t ready to _hear._

He burst out with, “He should! You all should! You- You don’t even know what happened! What I did!”

 

“Then _tell_ me” Bruce bit back, unable to stand the raw pain, the self-hatred dripping from Tony’s voice, but powerless to help.

 

Tony fell silent.

 

And nothing Bruce said could bring him back out of his shell. 

* * *

 

Whatever had caused the incident, if that’s what it was to be called, was obviously upsetting Tony greatly, and Bruce might not be able to help with that, but he damned well could help with the bruises and gingerly held arm.

 

Looking at the man curled into a ball against the headboard of his bed, with one arm tucked against his chest, and the other held around drawn up legs, half covered with blankets, and sporting an atypically vacant expression, Bruce asked, “Can I see your arm?”

 

He didn’t really expect an answer.

 

Especially not Tony simply offering his arm.

 

It was strange how much more worrying the affirmative acceptance was, than the expected refusal.

 

“Does your arm hurt, or your side?” Bruce asked, carefully lifting Tony’s right arm, although the unconcealed wince made an answer redundant.

 

Gentle examination revealed a jarred elbow, as if a hard, unyielding object had made solid contact, sending reverberations up through the limb. The wrist on the same hand was mildly sprained.

 

“Thor said you had some bruising?” he asked, trying to draw Tony into a conversation, even if it was only to deny or complain, but to no avail. His only answer was an indifferent shrug.

 

Sighing, Bruce thought back to what JARVIS had said earlier… _upper back._

 

Tony didn’t bat an eyelid when Bruce gently leant him forward, away from the headboard, and pushed down the half-cocooning blankets.

 

He couldn’t stifle the gasp that was wrenched from his lips, and he murmured “Jesus, Tony. What did you do?”

 

Mottled blacks and blues, interspersed with bursts of deep purple edged in green caressed both shoulders and flecking across the skin between them. The huge sprawling bruise looked to be darkening before the physicist’s very eyes.

 

“Too late for ice to help, god… -it looks like someone slammed you into a wall-” Bruce stalled mid-breath.

 

Someone with super strength, maybe.

 

Bruce’s brain shorted out.  It just didn’t compute. He _knew_ Steve wouldn’t hurt Tony. JARVIS had said there was no fight. And even if Steve had been defending himself, Tony had fired that replus-

 

**The repulsor.**

 

Set to full strength, two blasts, one of them connecting solidly enough to create kickback. 

 

Bruce had seen those awful test videos of Tony’s prototype armour, seen him slammed into walls and ceilings like rag doll.

 

The fact that Tony didn’t even _remember_ being blasted into a wall, practically screamed head injury, and it would have been quite possible- almost impossible for his head _not_ to have bounced off the wall, if the bruises were telling their own story accurately.

 

Careful fingers sunk into grease matted hair, and Bruce hoped he wouldn’t miss blood, if it were concealed by the filth and grime.

***

 

He found a lump.

 

One tiny, almost negligible egg on the far left of Tony’s hair line.  And although Bruce knew better than to dismiss _any_ head injury out of hand, he was much more comfortable blaming the sketchy memory on the original diagnosis of shock and trauma.

 

One more thing to-

 

He’d moved back slightly, preparing to slide of the bed, when Tony had sighed sleeping against his chest, where his head was resting, and Bruce realised that the impromptu head massage had almost put the genius to sleep.

 

“Come on, just one more thing I want to check…then I’ll put you back to sleep. That’s it, sit up…” easing the emotionally exhausted man up and back against the headboard carefully, knowing that when Tony eventually felt those bruises, he would _feel_ them, Bruce eased the rest of the blankets away from Tony’s bare chest.

 

“I just want to see that you getting slammed into a wall, and then hyperventilating your way through a major panic attack didn’t do any discernable damage…so just- breathe for me.” Bruce ordered, and reached out to place a hand on the damaged section of ribs alongside the arc reactor.

 

Bruce had never seen Tony come fully awake so fast. One moment he’d been pleasantly drowsy, the memory of the evening’s drama a distant echo, put aside until he woke. The next he was rigid against the headboard, eyes huge and terror-darkened, sunk deep into a very pale face, his arms coming up to cross protectively over the mound of blankets, concealing the arc reactor.

 

Bruce was taken aback by the reaction, and a little hurt.  He’d helped with the arc reactor on several previous occasions, and Tony had finally trusted him enough in the past few months to start teaching him the medical side of the device, on Bruce’s insistence that he wanted to be able to help if anything ever went wrong.

 

He supposed he could understand. He’d know the arc reactor was a point of vulnerability, and that Tony was very sensitive about it. It made sense that Tony would be feeling exposed and unsettled tonight – It was just that Tony had never pulled away from _him,_ never distrusted him before.

 

He wanted to say ‘I won’t hurt you’.

 

There were lots of things Bruce wanted to say. He wanted to offer comfort, reassurances and support. Wanted to say ‘It wasn’t your fault’ or ‘Steve won’t blame you’.  He wanted to offer a hug, or a shoulder if Tony needed one.

 

But he had a feeling that there was only one person who could give Tony what he needed to get past this.  There was a deep fear still lingering in those troubled brown eyes, and Bruce knew that only one person could dispel it.

 

 And so he settled for saying, “I’ll let you know when Steve wakes.”

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> Steve is next and y'all finally find out exactly what happened and why. Excited? Guesses?


	5. Battle-Heart

He had no body, and yet could move, could touch. Had no eyes and yet could see. He was breathing, was dreaming, was thinking and musing. Yet he wasn’t truly awake.

The mild rocking motion was accompanied by a sense of detachment. So much so, that he was tempted to call it floating.

He was engulfed in a nothingness that, despite feeling harmless, was not familiar _._ The darkness was comfortable, but not _complete._ He was mildly perturbed by the sure sense of ‘ _…something is missing_ ’ that formed a persistent hum at the back of his consciousness.

Something he needed.

Pushed into action by the sudden and compelling _need,_ he began to struggle against the warm cradle of darkness, urgency growing for something he had no name for, yet knew was as important as his own breath.

Abruptly, and without warning, the darkness parted like a curtain before a theatre audience, and light started to spill in.

He instinctively knew that this sharp white brightness wasn’t the light he had been seeking.  

Tentatively he pushed forward, still chasing the burning desire to fill his world with non-blackness.

Tendrils of the light had broken off from the main body, and were creeping through the dark toward him, turning his solid darkness to an inky, roiling grey.

He stopped as themalevolence radiating from the light reached him, forming an overpowering understanding that he _really_ shouldn’t touch it.

Yet, to grace his current world with something other than black, with the softness that was missing…he had no choice.

Cautiously, he reached a hand out toward the closest coil, oddly disconcerted when it seemed to notice his intention and moved to meet him.

A heartbeat, two, and then the light brushed against his outstretched palm, and his world exploded into a fiery wash of agony, sweeping from his palm and settling into his entire body.

His mind blazing with screaming pain, Steve scrambled away from the light, plunging back into his protective gloom, wrapping the soothing oblivion about himself, all thoughts of seeking his familiar non-darkness stifled.

* * *

 

And yet, now that he’d thought about it, pictured it and tried to recall it, Steve couldn't forget the non-memory of the comfort and ease that awaited him, if he could just find that needed light.

He turned slowly, fighting the urge to stay hidden within his cocoon, as his gaze lit upon the hovering grey/white haze that had crawled to a stop in the near distance.

Somehow he knew that the light wouldn’t approach any closer. He could stay as he was, safe and pain free, for as long as he liked.

Even as he thought it though, as if ascertaining his dwindling conviction, the small niggling desire to find what was missing, suddenly burst into an all-consuming need.

Determined to avoid the pain he knew would come, should he seek to leave this not-quite-right darkness, Steve tried to shove the _burning need_ to the back of his mind. He pulled the darkness closer, endeavouring to lose himself in its fathomless depths, coveting the gentle lull that had soothed his mind earlier.  He wanted to ignore the pull, the growing urge to find that which he knew not, but still desired.   

The _promise_ of that which awaited him, unknown, yet somehow familiar, swelled into a clamouring demand. Unable to ignore it, _not wanting to ignore it_ , Steve let go of the darkness, and moved once again toward the light.

He stopped, the light bathing his features and cutting through his darkness, spread out before him in wide sweeping arcs. He knew what pain awaited him, and wanted nothing more than to retreat from it.

He held his hand out once more, palm outstretched, a sickly grey coil stopping its approach to hover a mere hairsbreadth away. He was almost able to feel the pain he knew would set upon him and spread fire through his veins at the first glancing touch.

Steve didn’t give it that first glancing touch. Instead, he threw himself bodily forward, immersing himself in the white light.

It felt like liquid fire, bathing his very bones. It rippled along his skin, tendrils of deeper pain settling beneath the fire, burning holes through his soul and bringing agony to his spirit.

He was sure he was screaming, although could hear nothing. He brought his hands up, clutching at his head as a stabbing, intense pain sunk into his skull, threatening to tear his mind apart.

He half tried to pull back, to withdraw back to the abyss behind him, but he held on, tenaciously fighting, moving forward, _surging_ forward.

Through the pain, _beyond_ the pain.

He struggled through the ashen-grey zone, and thrust forward into the stark white light that hadn’t needed to mingle with already engulfed darkness. 

The pain changed. As ever present, as ever dreadful and terrible, yet…less so. It gathered at his side, and pooled about his head in tight bands of agony.

More piercing. More tangible. More real.

He stilled, nearly bought low by the sudden shift of agony, and almost _, almost_ gave in.

Then the need that had been mostly overshadowed by the excruciating pain, gushed back to the forefront of his awareness, and this time it was accompanied by an unequivocal sense of urgency and anxiety.

Something was wrong. 

He’d go throughthis white light, because he _had_ to.

Pooling all of his remaining strength and willpower, Steve thrust himself forward, one step deeper into the white light, and abruptly, his entire vision bloomed pale, before fading.

* * *

 

His mind woke properly with a gentle shiver, shaking away the lethargy that deep healing sleep always left upon him.

It was only when he tried to carry that gentle shake over into a physical shake of his muzzy head, that the pain ignited behind his eyes, cascading in a riot of agony over the left side of his face and curling down the back of his neck.

The choked hiss that escaped his lips must have been louder than he’d thought, because within seconds, he heard a voice approaching from the far side of the room.

“Steve? Steve, don’t move. You’ve been hurt.” Bruce instructed firmly.

Steve was able to hear his approach and pinpoint the moment the doctor stilled beside the –bed?  Not his and Tony’s bed, anyway.

Forcing his eyes open wasn’t the effortless task it usually was, and even that minuscule movement sent tendrils of pain creeping across his skin.  Blinking against the hazy sheen that enveloped his vision, he attempted to wet his lips with a dry tongue, before he somehow managed to rasp out, “’at happn’d?”

Bruce’s concerned face swept into his line of sight, and the scientist eased a straw between his lips, bringing welcome water within his reach. “Small sips. What do you remember?” he asked.

Swallowing carefully, having learnt his lesson on the first mouthful, the resulting pain having made his eye water, Steve cast his thoughts about, trying to recall…

The workshop. They’d all been in the workshop…actually, it had just been him and Tony – he’d been sketching Tony, and then… _nothing._

“ _Tony?_ ” he asked, worried, readying himself to stand at a moment’s notice.

Bruce must have seen the indications of this, because his hand was on Steve’s shoulder, and his voice was calming as he quickly replied, “Tony is not badly hurt. -No. You need to stay still. I’m not going to tell you he’s completely fine, because he’s not. He has some bumps and bruises, but he’ll be okay. As will you. ”

Steve eyed Bruce, knowing the man wouldn’t lie to him, but if Tony was okay, then why wasn’t he here?  He asked as much, licking his lips with much more success, before questioning, “Where is-?”

Bruce sighed, sitting in the chair beside Steve’s bed as he answered, “I’m going to tell you what happened. But before I do, I’m going to ask for your word. ”

Steve frown slightly, grimacing when it pulled the fire further towards the front of his face, but he answered, “My word? Bruce-?”

“Tony is physically fine, and you are really very not. I will tell you what I know, but I need your word. Your word that you will stay in this bed until I give you the all clear”, Bruce’s voice was firm.  

Despite the fact that just by asking for such an agreement, Steve was desperate to throw himself out of this bed and go find Tony, he knew that Bruce would tell him nothing if Steve didn’t give his word.

“My word.” he agreed.

Bruce nodded, his face taking on an indescribable emotion as he started to explain, “Okay – None of us are 100% sure of what actually happened, or rather _why_ it happened. All we know is that Tony shot you in the head with a repulsor. ”

Steve flinched, his lips parting as his eyes widened in alarm. Tony had _shot_ him?

He started to push himself up, frantic worry settling into his mind.

What the hell had he done to Tony that had resulted in his lover needing to _shoot_ him?!

Whether it was Bruce’s firmly spoken “Your word, Steve” or the pain that roared down his side and blanked his vision, Steve dropped back into the bed with an agonised moan, his throbbing head filled with half formed theories and notions.

“How long?” he bit out, bringing a hand up to try and rub away the spots starting to cloud his vision.

Bruce caught his hand, and Steve allowed, or didn’t have the strength to resist, as the scientist pulled it back down to the bed, answering, “Almost nine hours.”

Steve groaned, opening his eyes wide, which brought the spots into swirling, dizzying relief as he corrected, “How long until I-”

“The side of your head is a mess, and that wound in your side needed stitches. You need to give yourself at least a day…”

Tony had already spent nine hours fretting, panicking and shaming himself into an ulcer, and now Steve was expected to allow him a further _day?_

“I can’t. He need-” Whatever he’d been trying to say was cut off, as Steve shook his head in frustration, and darkness engulfed him again.

* * *

 

He woke swiftly the second time, more a result of his body’s needs, than readiness to be awake.

Specifically, the needs of his bladder.

His eyes opened, and he blinked several times, clearing his gaze of sleep residue, cringing as he felt the full strength of his head injury come roaring back to life with his own consciousness.

“B-Bruce?” he called quietly, fighting against a dry mouth and the sudden raging headache.

To his credit, as Steve had known he would, the scientist was by Steve’s side in seconds, hands careful as he eased taught limbs back down to the soft mattress, “Hey- I wasn’t expecting you to wake for a few more hours. How do you feel?”

Steve grimaced. He hated being injured, and had never thanked his lucky stars more for the serum than he did in these instances, as they insured it didn’t happen more often.

“Not overly great. I need to-” he started, knowing that he was blushing, despite also knowing that it was a ridiculous reaction to such a commonplace need.

Something in Steve’s demeanour must have given him away, because Bruce caught onto what he was saying immediately, and with an affectionately amused grin, he answered, “I’m assuming you don’t want to use a bed-pan…”

“God, no! Just- To the bathroom, please?” Steve scowled, starting to push himself upright, only to falter with a gasp as pain tore down his left side.

Bruce’s strong grip stabilised him, and the doctor replied, “Fine, but you let me do the heavy lifting…and we stop if it gets too painful. Deal?”

Steve nodded, already out of breath, and with Bruce’s help, he somehow got himself mostly upright on the floor.  Together, the two managed a shuffling hobble across to the bathroom, with Steve providing a backing soundtrack of wheezing gasps torn from his throat.

Eventually though, they made it, and Bruce eased Steve into a lean against the sink before he stepped from the room, and slid the door most-way closed.

His breathing was more than slightly laboured, and Steve couldn’t discern where one injury finished and the other began, his whole left side, from waist to head, was an aching, agonising mess. 

He completed his business on ever more shaky legs, before slowly turning and moving to the sink, carefully balancing his weight against the ceramic rim as he turned the water on. Looking up, reaching for the hanging hand-towel, his gaze found the small vanity mirror on the far wall, and he couldn’t help but stare.

He wasn’t a vain man, at least he hadn’t thought so.  But he was suddenly and overwhelmingly grateful for the serum’s advanced healing properties.   The left side of his head wouldn’t look like ground-beef for too long.

His entire ear was just, gone…but Steve could already see where it was starting to reform from the mess of torn skin and muscle beneath it. Most of the hair on that side of his head was either burnt off, or shaved away by Bruce as he’d tried to discern the nature of the injury.

He couldn’t see the wound at his side, the wide bandage covering the majority of it, but the sheer area of blood flecks spoke to the size and depth of the injury.

Tony hadn’t been messing around.

He was broken from his rather daunting thoughts by Bruce’s concerned voice from the door, “Steve, are you okay?”

Stumbling back to the door, glad to be away from the mirror, he answered as the door started to slide, “Yeah. Yes. Just- eyeing the damage.”

As they made the even more formidable trip back to the bed, Steve’s legs all but dragging at some stages, Bruce replied, “You were very badly hurt, and very, very lucky…”

Once again settled in the bed, Steve gratefully accepting the cup of water Bruce passed him, taking smalls sips between panting breaths, as he continued the conversation, “Lucky? Bey- Sorry. Beyond not- being dead?”

Bruce settled into the seat beside him, answering, “Lucky not to be dead, actually. Take a deep breath- that took a lot out of you. I’d have insisted on a bed-pan, but I know you’d have just ended up in a heap on the floor when you tried anyway.”

Steve nodded, partially apologetic and partially agreeing, as he took a few deep breaths, waiting for the pain to subside. “Sorry. Where- Where is everyone?”

Bruce nodded, and ran through their friends, “Natasha is getting lunch, if you feel up to something and are still awake when she gets back. Clint and Thor are cleaning up the worksh-”

Sitting up straighter, Steve ignored the pull of his side and the throb of his head, as he gasped out, “Clint and Thor are- Where’s Tony?!”

His mind was suddenly engulfed with images of Tony have fled the tower, Tony blamed for his injuries, Tony hurt… He struggled feebly to leave the bed, damning his weakness that Bruce could hold him down with such ridiculous ease.

 “Settle down, you’ll rip your stitches! Steve-” The scientist raised his voice, struggling to keep Steve in the bed.

“Sir is currently in the kitchen area of your suite. His vital signs are within normal parameters.” JARVIS suddenly broke in, his voice louder than normal, to be heard over the tussle, and Steve’s pained gasping.

Stilling beneath Bruce’s hands, the Captain relaxed slowly into a puddle of pain, as he absorbed what JARVIS had said.

The other man gently settled him back on the bed, not meeting Steve’s eyes as he efficiently rechecked the wounds for further damage. Seeing the dark circles beneath Bruce’s eyes, and the pinch of stress about his usually congenial face, Steve felt shame.

“Sorry Bruce- I just- I panicked.” he apologised weakly, waiting until he received an understanding, if not completely forgiving nod, before he continued, “Tony’s in the kitchen, JARVIS? Is he eating?”

JARVIS answered, “Not by any stretch of the imagination. Sir is- cleaning the oven at this time. He has already completed the fridge and all the lower cupboards.”

Steve honestly had no idea what to say. Not a clue. 

Tony didn’t clean.

Did. Not. Clean.

Steve honestly hadn’t thought the man capable.

He sighed. As if he’d needed further proof that all was not well. “Just- keep an eye on him for me, please, JARVIS”, Steve asked.

“Naturally, Captain” was JARVIS’s dry reply, and of course, Tony’s sarcastic AI _would_ be the first to drag a smile from him.

Turning back to Bruce, Steve said, “Why are Thor and Clint cleaning the workshop?”

It was a reasonable and pointed question. Tony very rarely let people into his workshop when he himself, wasn’t there, and for them to be _cleaning…_

“They’re cleaning up the blood. As far as I know, Tony hasn’t set foot in there since-” Bruce explained, his own clipped tone telling Steve that the scientist couldn’t have been further from happy about the situation, but didn’t know what to do about it.

For some reason, this disturbed Steve even more than the thought of Tony shooting him. Tony loved the workshop, it was his sanctuary, his haven. For Tony to be avoiding it…

“He hasn’t come to see me, has he?” Steve asked, point blank. He’d suspected it, the last time he’d woken, but had assumed Tony was hiding out in the soothing comfort of his workshop.

If he wouldn’t let himself come to Steve, and he didn’t have the workshop, then Tony was drifting alone, in a sea of self-reprisal and guilt, with no port from the storm.

And Steve, as much as he wanted to rush to his lover’s side, couldn’t even walk to the bathroom and back unaided.

Bruce was answering, and Steve hastened to pay attention, _needing_ to know everything he could. “No. I tried- I let him know when you first started showing signs of waking. But, you know Tony. He’-”

“He’s a walking mess of guilt and shame. And if he hasn’t come to me by now, I’m going to have to go to him.” Steve concluded.

Bruce nodded, although he was frowning, “You will have to go to him. But not yet. You’re no good to Tony if you collapse halfway there.”

Steve knew Bruce was right, even if that knowledge was causing more pain that his injuries. He answered, “I know. Just- tell me. Talk to me.”

Bruce ran a hand over his eyes, and then licked his lips, before answering, “I spoke to him right after I got you stabilised. The kickback from the repulsor shot threw him into a wall. He’s got some bruising and a sprained wrist, but it’s not the injuries that have me worried. I’ve never seen him so… _blank.”_

He stopped talking for a second, eyeing Steve, gauging whether he was in a state to be hearing this. The steely determination in those blue eyes was as convincing as anything else, and Bruce continued, “He thought he’d killed you. Initially, when it first happened. He just- he fell apart. Don’t ever doubt that infuriating man’s love for you Steve, no matter what his mouth, behaviour or actions say. He was- _wrecked_. And not just by guilt. Pure devastation, maybe. ”

Steve blinked against the wave of emotion that rose within him.

Love.

Steve didn’t really _doubt_ it, as such, but it wasn’t a word Tony found easy to say. Or show. Steve had a feeling that it was more about how vulnerable such a thing made Tony, rather than its lack of existence.  

To have Bruce touch on it so directly, was bracing.

Seeing that Steve wasn’t ready to speak, his throat tight with worry and unease, Bruce added, “He won’t talk about it, at least not to me.  Everyone else has tried as well, and he’s just- He’s not ready or willing to listen.”

“He’ll listen to me.” Steve choked out.

A promise, a threat, and a vow in one.

* * *

 

The next time he woke, it was dark.

Middle of the night type dark, the curtains were closed against the coming sunrise, and only the soft light shining beneath the bathroom door across the room broke through the consuming blackness.

It should have been blue.

Sighing, Steve carefully catalogued the state of his injuries, and wondered how much time had passed. Last he remembered, he’d been picking at the sandwich that Natasha had set in front of him.

A decent number of hours then.

His side ached with every twinge of movement, but didn’t feel like it was threatening to split apart as it had the last time he’d attempted to sit up. His head still throbbed with dull pain, but the fire was doused, only igniting when he moved too quickly.

Slowly he sat up and looked around carefully.

His enhanced vision only just allowed him to make out the hunched form that had to be Bruce in the purloined armchair by the window, and Steve huffed a fond breath at the caring and considerate fools he was living with.

Speaking of, he _needed_ to get to Tony.

But he’d given Bruce his word.

Whisper quite, but knowing he’d be heard, Steve said, “JARVIS, lights 5%”

The room was bathed in only infinitesimally more light, but for Steve it was more than enough.  He could clearly make out the lines of worry and fatigue that creased Bruce’s sleeping face, and while he knew a fair number were caused by his own close call, he also knew that he wasn’t the only one who cared for their vexing billionaire.

Slipping from the bed, steadying himself on the floor with a hand against the bed, Steve slowly tested his strength, and found it surprisingly solid, although he could feel that it was likely to fade rapidly.

With a final glance at Bruce, he crept from the room.

* * *

 

The hall was naturally dark and deserted as he stepped out into it, closing the door behind him with a barely audible _snick._

He padded slowly down the carpeted hall, both to avoid detection, and to accommodate the slow burning pain that scorched beneath his skin at every step.

As he approached the elevator, and far enough from the room he’d been ensconced in for the past day or so, Steve spoke quietly, “JARVIS, Is Tony still in the penthouse?”

“Yes, Captain.” Was the immediate reply, and there was a beat of silence before JARVIS continued, “I am most relieved that you are up and about, Captain”

Steve paused as he started to enter the elevator, looking up with a worried look as he answered, “He’s that bad?”

He could hear both relief and contrition in the mechanical nuances, as JARVIS replied, “It was not my intention to make you feel as though I only value your health in so much as it relates to Sir. But yes, he is that bad.”

Steve leant carefully against the wall of the elevator, relaxing slightly as he rested his weary body, answering, “It’s okay, I understand. I am thankful that Tony has you in his corner”

“And I equally grateful that he has you at his back, Captain.” JARVIS replied, as the elevator rose swiftly.

“Is he- What is he doing?” Steve asked.

“Sir is currently cleaning the bathroom. I am unable to ‘see’ him due to the internal privacy measures, but my sensors indicate he is cleaning the floor. With great attention to detail.”

Steve shook his head, as bemused hearing it the second time as he had been the first. Tony, _cleaning._

“Has he slept?” The blond asked.

“No. Not since the incident in the workshop, and only 4.4 hours in the 72 prior.” JARVIS’s voice easily showed what he AI thought of that, the disapproval and concern odd, yet recognisable under the perfunctory programming.

No wonder Tony was coming apart at the seams, after almost 4 days without sleep and the emotional and physical toll on top of that, he had to be completely and utterly exhausted.

Steve wondered if he should ask JARVIS’s opinion of Tony’s mental state, or his advice on how best to approach this, but before he could decide the elevator door slid open, and he was standing in the corridor outside their rooms.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself against the oncoming unrest, and wondering if he should be bracing for a maelstrom instead, Steve opened the door and stepped inside.

* * *

 

Their bathroom was the furthest room from the front entrance, and Steve used every step wisely, drawing deep breaths to settle his nerves.

He moved into the bedroom, his gaze passing over the neatly made bed, all their various bits and pieces stacked up or put away tidily.  The bathroom door was open, but Tony wasn’t visible from his current position, and Steve moved closer, finally stopping to lean against the doorframe.

The bathroom was blindingly clean, each tile polished to a ridiculous degree of shine. The mirror was flawless, and the overhead lighting dust free. The implications of its three meter vantage point worried Steve for a moment, but then his gaze settled on the bare foot peeking out of the door of the shower, and all other thoughts disappeared.

Steve hadn’t been purposefully quiet as he’d entered the apartment, but it was obvious that Tony hadn’t heard him, and indeed, continued to not hear him as Steve moved across the room to round the short wall separating the shower from the bathroom at large.

His lover was sitting cross legged on the floor of the shower, and he was…he appeared to be cleaning the silicon liner that sealed the door. 

He looked dreadful. 

His hair was limp with sweat, and tangled into unforgiving snarls. Steve couldn’t see his face, but could just glimpse the beginnings of an unhealthy flush that tainted pale cheeks, and knew that the accompanying eyes would be sunken and dark rimmed. He was wearing a pair of sweatpants, which very well might have belonged to someone with several inches on him, and a filthy t-shirt that Steve swore had been in the washing basket the morning before the incident, caked in grease and oil.

Should he call Tony’s name?

Carefully sit beside him?

Tentatively reach out and touch him?

In the end, he settled on gentle familiarity and simply said, “Hi.”

Tony startled, dropping the scrubbing brush and yelping. He spun swiftly, wide eyes rising to meet Steve’s.

Brown eyes traced him, scanning over every mark, evaluating, assessing, and slowly standing, he answered with an all but whispered, “ _Hi, yourself.”_

Satisfied that Tony appeared to be at least talking to him, Steve continued, speaking with blunt honesty, saying firmly, without undue volume, “You’ve been avoiding me.” 

The other man crossed his arms defensively, and Steve absently noted that none of the arc reactor’s glow escaped its cotton prison.  He watched as Tony’s pink tongue darted out and swept across his lips in a telling manner, the ‘deer in the headlights’ looks slowly fading as the genius prepared to deny the accusation.

And then his shoulders suddenly slumped and he just nodded.

Steve, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, immediately asked, “Why?”

The completely incredulous look that graced Tony’s face would have been funny in almost any other situation.   Tonight, it only served to sadden Steve.  He sighed, “I’m not angry Tony. I just want to know what I di-”

Tony’s gaze snapped up from its position around his knees, and his voice, when it escaped his lips, was strangled and disbelieving, “W-What!”

“Did I hurt you?  I always, I try to- I can’t remember if I-” Steve rambled, wondering what Tony wasn’t telling him, what the shock was hiding.

_Why he’d shot Steve._

Tony pushed forward, his hands finding purchase on Steve’s biceps as he replied adamantly, “What- no! no, no…you didn’t. You’ve never-”

Ignoring the pain that rocked through him as Tony physically latched onto him, Steve revelled in the feeling of Tony this close to him, the need and determination for Steve to believe him.

The benefits far surpassed the pain.

His own hands coming up to gently bracket Tony’s waist, Steve asked calmly, “Then what? What happened?”

The change of question seemed to alert Tony to fact that he was discussing the very situation he’d avoided even thinking about for the past day.  He immediately pulled away, becoming tight-lipped, as he replied with vague reticence, “I just- I don’t know. I have work to do.”

Steve wasn’t accepting the answer. Tony _would_ talk to him. Steve couldn’t let this go until he did, and so he pulled no punches as he sniped back, “In the workshop? The one you haven’t been in since whatever happened?”

Tony went silent, and fell still, his eyes wide and uncomfortably perceiving as he stared at Steve, calculating. Then finally, the shutters snapped down, and he said in a voice that was as empty as his eyes. “You don’t remember. No one’s told you what I did, have they?”

Steve realised that Tony had assumed that Steve knew what had happened in the workshop and was here to extract his pound of flesh over the shooting. The fact that Steve didn’t seem to want that, must surely mean he wasn’t aware of what had really happened.

“…Bruce may have indicated that you shot me in the head with a repulsor.” He replied, matter of factly. Like it was something that happened every day, and of no great consequence.

“I shot you, Steve. In the- What? You know! You- But how can you be so-?  I almost killed you- and you just, You want to-” Tony stumbled backwards slightly, his eyes wide as he tried to fathom the fact that Steve apparently _knew_ what he’d done, and was still standing here before him, voice soft, and eyes softer. 

Steve sighed, this was the crux of the matter. Tony never believed that others would give him the benefit of the doubt. Determined that Tony would understand that _he would_ , if no one else, Steve replied, “I want a great many things, Tony! I want you to know I’d _never_ think you’d hurt me deliberately. I want you to know that I trust you. Mostly, I just want you to believe me when I tell you I love you.”

Tony blinked up at him, speechless, his eyes wide with a disbelief and longing that would never be spoken.

“But for now- I just want you to tell me what happened.” Steve finished.

* * *

 

He watched as Tony blinked slowly, his fingers coming up to tap against the arc-reactor in his patented ‘anxious’ movement, but curiously, within the same movement, they were swept back down and ended up tangled in the hem of the grease stained shirt.

Steve waited, not pushing, knowing that for all he might refuse to accept no as an answer, ultimately it had to be Tony’s choice. 

 _Trust me,_ his blue eyes pleaded.

“If I- Do you rememb- I- I don’t know where to begin.” Tony started haltingly, his arms wrapping about himself in a way that made Steve desperate to reach out and draw him into an embrace that could _truly_ engulf.

“Try the beginning…” Steve prompted gently, no sarcasm or humour in his soft voice.

Tony shook his head, distress colouring his features as he answered, “There’s so many though. There’s the beginning of yesterday, and there’s the beginning of what caused that, and the beginning of what caused _that._ I don’t-”

“Just start with yesterday- what happened in the workshop?” Steve prompted, not wanting Tony to get lost in what seemed like a very big picture.

Tony nodded, starting strongly, but soon trailing off, “I was testing the power factor on the new palm repulsor, and you were sketching. And then...Right before I- Before-”, he was unable to form three simple words, ‘I shot you’.

At Steve’s understanding nod, Tony continued, “-We were making out. You- your hand…you touched the arc. and I- I swear I didn’t know- I’ve never, not about the arc reactor. I didn’t even think. You’ve touched it before- hell, you go to sleep with your hand on it! ”

“Flashback?” Steve confirmed quietly, immediately joining the dots that led from touching the arc rector to being blasted across a room.

They spelled ‘Obadiah Stane’.

Tony nodded, his eyes never leaving the ground, heavy with shame and guilt.

Steve stepped closer, unable to stand the raw misery that poured from the hunched form, he gently wrapped his arms around Tony’s shoulders and drew the smaller man against his chest. He spoke quietly, “Hey- hey, enough of that. You had a panic attack. It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known, it was an acciden- ”

Tony shoved away from Steve, rejecting the comfort that he felt he didn’t deserve.

Steve missed whatever his lover said, as with the jolt, white hot agony exploded down his left side, and he dragged in a pained gasp that he couldn’t even begin to stifle.

“Steve! Oh my god- I’m so stupid, what was I thinking! JARVIS, I need-” Tony’s voice was shrill with panic, and he only quietened when Steve flapped a hand in front of his face.

“Don’t- Don’t wake Bruce. I’m fine, I just mo-” Steve stopped to drawn in a breath between pressed lips, before continuing, ‘- I just moved wrong. Just- let me lean on you.”

Tony didn’t say anything, but Steve took it as a win when he immediately pressed in close, plastering himself along Steve’s right side, and allowed an arm to be looped about his back.

“I think I should get less vertical- and maybe you should follow my example. How about we move this out of the shower-huh?” Steve said, starting a slow shuffle toward the bedroom, glad when Tony dutifully kept pace.

He sat on the corner of the bed carefully, his grip allowing Tony no choice but to sink down beside him, and Steve asked, “You said something before- I didn’t hear.”

Tony pulled away slightly, as he spoke, “Maybe you should get some rest-”

 “Tony. Tell me what you said.” Steve pressed, not willing to lose any of the ground he already gained.

He watched as Tony’s teeth suck into his lower lip, in a way that was all too reminiscent of what those teeth did to his own lower lip on occasion. But Tony’s answer swiftly brought his attention back to the matter at hand, “It was my fault-”

“The panic attack? Tony, you couldn’t have-” he tried to explain, reaching for hands that pulled away.

“I did. –I did. I just, I wanted to-” Tony was actually babbling, not seeming to be able to find what he needed to say.

Steve interrupted him, “Tony. _Breathe._ …Now- Tell me how a panic attack about what happened with Obadiah Stane could even conceivably be your fault.”

Tony bit his lower lip again, and this time when he stood and moved away, Steve let him go, understanding that Tony needed space to work out what he was trying say.

Pacing in a three step line before Steve, Tony finally spoke, “You know I have some, _issues_ , with the reactor. I don’t like people- the touching and the looking. It’s too…it’s my weakness. So, yeah. Some issues. Nightmares. But I’ve never freaked out like that-never had a flashback or anything-”

Steve didn’t interrupt or press him to make his point, able to see that this was hard enough as it was.

“I- think I made them worse though. The arc-reactor issues.” Tony finally said, as if admitting to a terrible deed.

Steve didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

He said as much, “I don’t know what you mean. How did you make them worse?”

Tony grimaced slightly, but the first bit of good humour that Steve had seen, snuck across his face as he replied, “I have a feeling you’re not going to like this bit. I did something. I had reasons though.”

“When do you not?” Steve replied, glad for the tiny reprieve, before he added, “Tell me.”

* * *

 “I want to watch your eyes _own_ me while you fuck me into a whimpering, shaking mess” was Tony’s explanation.

Steve was justifiably, nonplussed.

Tony’s voice lost its teasing lilt as he continued, “Did you know that we’ve never had sex face to face, unless I’m wearing a shirt?”

Steve hadn’t known, but as soon as the words slipped form Tony’s mouth, he knew without a doubt, that they were true.

Tony tried to explain, “Don’t look at me like that. I know you like- Okay! Love the arc-rector. You think it’s…what was the word?”

“Mesmerising. Enchanting. Beautiful. Perfect. – Take your pick.” Steve injected.

“Exactly. What you said. _I know that_. I don’t see how, but I honestly believe that you believe it. It’s just that I- I don’t.” Tony continued, “No- let me finish. I have my own words for it. Amazing. Brilliant. Awesome. I don’t think it’s ugly…. “, he paused, almost biting the air as he sighed, before correcting himself.

“I do actually. I do. I’m sorry. I do think it’s ugly – my chest is just a mess of scars…but that’s not what this is about. When I’m lying there beneath you, and I know you’re looking at it, I feel- vulnerable, defenceless and exposed. I don’t feel unsafe- I don’t. Really. I trust you. I just…I can’t relax. Can’t let my guard down.  I want to sink into _us,_ be thinking of you, and only you _…_ and I can’t, because I can’t stop worrying about this stupid disc of glowing light _!_ ” he finally trailed off, breath heaving slightly as he half shouted.

This had obviously been bothering Tony for a long while, if he was able to get so worked up about it. Steve asked softly, “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because you already knew I had issues! I didn’t want you to think I was a complete basket case!” Tony bit out, and then reflecting on why they were even having this conversation, he dropped his head into his hands, and settled into a crouch by Steve’s feet. 

Resting his head against Steve’s knee, he apologised, “Sorry- I just. I thought I could fix it myself. But I only made it worse. This is the bit you’re not going to like, just in case you were wondering when we were going to get to that.”

“You’d better just tell me then. Rip it off like a band-aid”, Steve advised, playing with a wayward curl that clung to his fingers.

“I tried to desensitize myself.” the genius said, telling Steve no more than he had before.

Steve was getting a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but couldn’t stop himself from asking, “How?”

Tony pressed into his hand, and Steve gratefully accepted the permission to card his fingers into the tangled mess, and then wondered if Tony had done it deliberately when he pulled sharply enough to cause Tony to yelp when he heard his lover’s next sentence.

“I’ve been watching the footage of Obi- of Stane, taking the arc reactor. Over. And over and over again.”

* * *

 

Steve had never seen that footage.

Had never even known that footage existed.

But he’d seen Tony come awake, gasping and shuddering with his hands grasping at his chest and his eyes blown wide, to know that it hadn’t been a pleasant experience.

“God- Tony. You’ve been watching-”, Steve was stuck on the idea of his lover essentially torturing himself.

He wanted to ask why, but he already knew.

It wasn’t an adequate reason. Nothing would ever be an adequate reason.

“You’re never, ever to watch that footage again- I can’t even. How could you be so stupid! ”, Steve scolded, and feeling Tony stiffen with hurt against his leg, he ordered, “Get up!”

“Why?’ Tony whispered, not yet moving, but not arguing.  

Steve wondered what was going through his lovers mind. Did he think Steve would throw him out? Hit him?

“So I can hug you, you idiot.” he answered.

With Tony cradled rigidly in the vee between his legs, knees on the floor, but locked in a crushing embrace, for the first time, Steve was pleased by the fire that the pressure ignited in his side, and the throb of his head.

It was proof of life. Both his and the man in his arms

* * *

 

After a moment, Tony pulled back slightly, and Steve reluctantly released his hold.

Brown settled on blue, before slowly roaming over the damage he’d done. As Tony took in the extent of the injury, his gaze became more pinched with each second.

Finally, having taken in the entirety of the hurt, he half stood from his kneeling position, and pressed warm lips against undamaged skin, just beneath the rapidly healing pink flesh.

Steve could feel the lips trembling against his skin, and the gentle flutter of blinking eyelashes as Tony pressed tiny butterfly kisses against his jaw murmuring, “I’m sorry” before each one.

After the fifth, Steve turned his head and caught the sixth, murmuring back, “I know”, and then “Me too” after the seventh.

It seemed to do what no amount of avoidance, talking or fighting had managed, and Steve felt his heart grow fit to burst from his chest, as Tony settled back to his knees, wrapped his left arm around Steve’s right flank, and pressed his face to Steve’s stomach.

And simply let the remnants of his traumatic shock wash over him, tears of terrible fear mingling with those of indescribable relief.

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More.
> 
> Hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> Last one up soon (touch wood).


	6. Battle-Worn

Waking up in an unfamiliar room was a sensation that Bruce Banner was intimately familiar with. 

Although, looking a little more closely at the sleek modern furnishings adorning the off-white walls, he realised that he wasn’t that far removed from his own room, and was most definitely still in the Avengers Tower.

Once that thought had reached full maturity in his still waking mind, Bruce had immediately remembered _why_ he was in a different room. Sitting up quickly from his _god-awful scrunch,_ blood began to pulse painfully back into formerly restricted areas, and taught muscles flamed awake as he moved.

Shoving away from the ‘chair of evil’ with a grunt, he turned to the bed across the room, something in him relaxing as his still focusing eyes made out the broad back and shadowed blond hair of his patient.

Somehow, he’d half expected to find the bed empty.

Shuffling closer, stretching and stifling a yawn, Bruce rounded the bed- _and stopped still._

Because Steve wasn’t the only one in the bed.

Half curled underneath the Captain’s arm, most of his body hidden beneath the mound of blankets that the super soldier hadn’t needed the night before, was Tony.

Bruce knew immediately, and without a doubt, that Steve had broken his word. That at some point during the night, his injured patient had crept from the room and sought out his lover.

He couldn’t find it in himself to be truly angry or upset about it.

After all, it was a testament to just how strongly Steve felt about the man who was essentially Bruce’s best friend. 

That didn’t mean that Bruce and Steve wouldn’t be having words about this at some point in the near future.  Perhaps next time the soldier was dealing with an obstinate Tony, once again refusing to believe that bed-rest generally took place in a bed, Bruce would raise an eyebrow and mouth the word _hypocrite_ to a frustrated Steve.

Whether by serendipitous coincidence, or some instinctual awareness, blue eyes chose that moment to flicker open slowly.  They immediately dropped to where his partner’s dark tousled hair was just visible, peeking out from beneath the blankets at chest level. 

There was something so _reverent_ and _intimate_ in the way Steve looked at Tony, that Bruce felt the urge to avert his eyes, but the moment was lost as Steve looked up and caught sight of him.

The other man at least had the good grace to look slightly bashful as he took in Bruce’s knowing gaze, but he offered no explanation other than to gently settle a hand in close approximation of where Tony’s head should be.  There was no regret in the abandoned shrug he gave in reply to the silent reprimand.

Bruce nodded, accepting the unsaid answer as he spoke quietly, “Morning. How do you feel?”

Steve lowered his own voice as well, in deference to the still sleeping Tony, answering, “Much better – a bit stiff in the face, but it’s already easing up.”

Stepping forward and raising a hand, Bruce paused infinitesimally as he asked, “Do you mind?”, and barely allowed time to acknowledge Steve’s nod, before his fingers were prodding the raw pink skin, a mess surely, but looking months healed, instead of mere hours.

“And your side?” The scientist asked, not stilling his ministrations.

Turning his head slightly to allow Bruce better access to the area toward the back of his skull, Steve replied, “Just twinges. No heavy lifting for a day or two.”

“Two, if you don’t mind.” Bruce replied dryly.

“Deal, on the proviso that _he-_ ” Steve gestured down to where Tony’s head was resting on his chest, “-doesn’t count as heavy.”

Bruce grinned, “He aint heavy, he’s your genius”, after a second the smile slipped a little, and he continued, “How is he?”

Steve knew that Bruce wasn’t asking after Tony’s physical health.

“He’s…We’re going to need some time.” Steve said, after finally settling on the best words.

The scientist eyed him carefully, taking in the protective tightening of the bicep curled over Tony’s shoulder, and the careful way Steve’s body was bracketing the smaller one cradled against him.

As if Tony were the one who had been most hurt.

And despite the healing wounds across the side of Steve’s face, perhaps he had been.

“Can I ask-” Bruce began, unsure if he was in the right to be asking Steve behind Tony’s back, well – his side really. But feeling that he truly needed to know, and that it had to be the truth, which he wasn’t sure he’d get from Tony anyway.

His chance was taken when Tony shifted slightly, pulling away from Steve with a half-stifled jerk,  relaxing his suddenly tense body only slightly when Steve ducked his head to whisper in one partially revealed ear.

Steve must have mentioned Bruce’s presence in his soft murmuring, because Tony slowly sat up, and moved himself bodily away from his lover, one hand coming up to rest over the reactor as he slipped from the bed completely.

“Bruce. Morning. Coffee.”, and turning, Tony slunk from the room at a smooth skulking pace.

Any remaining hope Bruce had of finding out what had happened in the workshop in the near future was dashed, when Steve, smiling apologetically said, “I’m going to go after him – I don’t think he should be alone.”

And then they were gone, and Bruce sighed, looking about the empty room.  With a shrug, he eased himself down on vacated bed, and settled in for a few hours of decent sleep.

* * *

 

Steve entered the elevator on Tony’s heels, having caught up in the hallway.  Turning, he setted into a half-slumped lean against the shiny glass wall, and watched as Tony crossed his arms and mirrored the stance opposite him.

Tony was still.

Tony was _never_ still.

 “Are you okay?” Steve asked, if only because he knew it would get a reaction.

A tiny aborted flinching shiver swept through Tony’s frame, and Steve’s eyes chased the twitch up to brown eyes, and waited with patient worry as Tony answered, “Hmm- what? Yes, of course. ”

Ignoring the obvious lie, Steve pressed, “How about a ‘Good morning, Steve’ then?” standing up and closing the two steps between them. Settling his weight in front of Tony, his lover was forced to look up to meet his eyes.

Tony sighed, but answered softly, “Sorry, I’m just- …Good Morning.”

Despite whatever Tony was feeling, the greeting had a quiet sincerity to it that set a small smile on Steve’s lips.  Bending slightly, he returned the words, a quiet murmur of “Good Morning, Tony”, followed by a gentle press of lips.

It was a nice kiss, _a very_ nice kiss, tender and soft, a barely-there brush of heat.

Only, it stayed that way. 

Steve could count on one hand the number of times Tony hadn’t at least _attempted_ to turn a chaste kiss into that of deep devouring passion. He had expected to be a flushed, breathless mess by this stage, pressed against the wall behind him, with Tony plastered down his front, or half climbing him like a tree.

But Tony just stood there, his lips gentle and _tentative_ beneath Steve’s dominant press.

And the moment Steve attempted to add a little spice to the sugar, in the form of a tongue flicking its way across Tony’s lower lip, the smaller man pulled away with a slight gasp.

Steve frowned, stepping back to give Tony a little space, although he had to admit, he was thoroughly confused. In an attempt to resolve this, he asked “Tony? What’s wrong?”

“What, nothing. I just – I have things. I need to go do-” He mouthed wordlessly for several seconds, obviously losing the trail of his impromptu excuse.

“What about coffee?” Steve pressed, both worried and amused by the deer + headlights look his partner was making good use of.

“Exactly! Coffee. I need to go do Coffee. You’re a lifesaver, babe.” and with a quick kiss to Steve’s cheek, Tony used the conveniently opening elevator doors to flee Steve’s presence.

Watching as Tony disappeared around the corner that led toward the gym and library, Steve shook his head, and resisted the urge to shout that coffee was in the kitchen, which was in the other direction. Knowing Tony though, which he did, Steve was pretty sure there was a coffee machine in every second room in the tower.

With a sigh, he decided against going after an obviously rattled and defensive Tony, opting to wait until his lover was more settled.

Instead, he made his way toward the kitchen. And coffee.

* * *

 

Two days later, and Steve was definitely worried. 

He’d had the same conversation, or at least elements of the same conversation, every time he’d cross paths with Tony.

And ‘crossed paths’ was definitely the right phrasing.

No one did avoidance like Tony Stark, and Tony Stark did avoidance like no one else.

Steve had been on the receiving end of Tony’s avoidance techniques on more than one occasion, and yet, even he had to admit that this was different.  It wasn’t so much that Tony was actually avoiding him, at least not initially.  It was only after a conversation became personal, or a movement bordered on physical, that Tony lit out like the hounds of hell where at his heels.

He hadn’t appeared in their bedroom either night, and although JARVIS had reassured Steve that Tony was fine, and was in fact working on something SI related in an empty lab several floors below, Steve had still worried.

Worried on more than one account. Firstly, because Tony wasn’t in the bed beside him, curled up where he belonged. And secondly, because Tony wasn’t down in his workshop, where he always retreated to.

According to JARVIS, Tony hadn’t set foot inside since the incident.

So, not only was he partially avoiding his lover, but it seemed Tony was also fully avoiding his favourite sanctuary.

Bruce had asked the engineer about it earlier that morning, in passing over the breakfast table. At which Tony had been present, but had not been sitting at the table, instead perched on the counter itself, coffee mug clutched to his chest as he’d answered.

“I’ve been busy. Designing interfaces for the new StarkTablet… My wrist is still too sore to be hammering and banging about in the workshop.”

Which was complete and utter bullshit, and each and every one of them knew it. It was after all, Tony Stark who’d been caught trying to work while hobbling about on a broken ankle only three months ago…

No one was buying it, but it wasn’t until Natasha said as much, that Tony became defensive and fled the kitchen in short order, rather than have to talk about it.

* * *

 

It wasn’t just the odd ‘sometimes-avoidance’. 

There was also the flinching away from unexpected touches, and all out avoidance of those expected.

He’d limited himself to a clap on the shoulder, his hand resting on Bruce’s arm for mere seconds before he’d whisked it away. Not once had he draped himself across his long suffering friend, babbling nonsense and generally being as annoying as possible.

He still poked Clint in the side to see the archer squirm against the invading fingers, but there had been no crash tackling into the beanbag strewn corner of the lounge room.

Thor, his huge bear hugs usually groused at, but not-so secretly cherished by the touch starved genius, had come at him only once, arms spread wide in SALUTATIONS and WELL-WISHING MY FRIEND, before Tony’s scuttle from the room had ensured the Thunder god had yet to try again.

Natasha he rarely touched anyway, except on the exceptional occasion when either his hand found hers, or hers found his and a gentle squeeze was exchanged. He’d allowed this the first morning he’d seen her after the incident.  Yet, they were all pretty sure, that come this movie night, Tony wouldn’t be found splayed out on the carpet, his head in Natasha’s lap, her nimble fingers chasing tendrils of tension, while Steve was left to contend with feet that rested on his lap while he rubbed them, or dug into his stomach when the rubbing lapsed.

And Steve, the man he laughed with, lived with and loved with? Well, he’d kissed Steve yesterday in the hall, but only a fleeting brush of lips, rather than the all-consuming _need_ that usually possessed him.  And twice, he’d all but run when Steve had offered him heaven, hell and the most perfect body between the two.  

Tony’s words of course.

After a full two days, Steve himself was doing fine, better than fine. In fact, he’d be willing to bet that the remnant of his injuries were easily outstripped by the myriad of ugly colours littered across Tony’s upper back.  Not for the first time, he wished he could share his healing ability.

So, Steve was doing okay, Tony was doing less so, and the other four were existing somewhere on the scale between them.

The general atmosphere that permeated the tower, and had settled over the inhabitants like a cloying cloud, was heavy and oppressive. Not necessarily malevolent or malicious, but certainly tense.  And Tony was at the heart of it.

The others wanted to know what had happened. _Why_ it had happened.  Most of them were aware that it had somehow involved the arc reactor, but were unable to move beyond that.

Unable to understand how Tony, who walked around with the light emanating proudly from his chest, who had started to allow Bruce to help with minor adjustments of the reactor, who allowed Steve free reign to touch the reactor, could suddenly have reacted so aggressively.

Of course, they all knew of PTSD, flashbacks and battle-shock to varying degrees, but understanding and accepting were worlds away from merely knowing.

* * *

It all came to a head on Thursday evening. Movie night. As many of these things seemed to do.

The five of them, minus Tony were gathered in the smallest entertainment room, with its plush carpeting, comfortable seating and cosy atmosphere.

They were waiting.

If Tony didn’t join them, they’d likely turn off the TV and disperse.

Movie night technically didn’t start until 7pm, and according to Jarvis, their wayward genius was deliberating about 20 feet down the hall, contemplating his options – left toward the Avengers, or right to elsewhere and loneliness.

He’d still had three and a half minutes left when he’d turned left and shuffled into the room.

No one said anything about the chosen path as he entered. There was no need- he was here and that was all that mattered. 

Instead, Natasha informed JARVIS of her movie choice, while Steve scooted over on the couch to make room between himself and the arm of the seat.

Only Tony padded beyond his usual spot, carefully avoiding Steve’s eyes, lest he see hurt, and sank down into the other available armchair.

Natasha fell silent mid request, her sharp gaze jumping between Tony and Steve. Thor growled low in his throat, the unsettling nature of his Midgardian family’s pains troubling him.   Bruce sighed, worry battling with mingled exasperation as he tried to intercept Tony’s resolute gaze from its pointed stare toward the still black television.

Clint just looked nonplussed, in a disquieted sort of way, knowing something was wrong, but having no idea how to even attempt fixing it. 

* * *

 

Tony _always_ sat beside Steve.  The only exceptions were injuries that required non-jostling or limb elevation, and usually, he ignored attempts to separate them even then.

Enough was enough.

Steve rolled easily to his feet, his injuries little more than a remembered pain as he crossed the room in three easy steps.  Stopping in front of the couch, Tony’s resolutely unfocused gaze settled somewhere about the level of his hips, refusing to be swayed upward.

Steve knelt, his hands coming to settle on rigidly tense thighs, and he kneaded gently as he leaned forwards, using his own not inconsiderable body size to create a sheltered space, fostering an illusion of privacy between them.

Pitching his voice deliberately low and soothing, Steve spoke quietly, “Alright. This has gone on long enough, we’re all worried. Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

To his credit, or perhaps Steve’s, Tony didn't try to evade the question, but his eyes scanned some unknown distance, and his voice was even quieter than Steve’s as he answered, “I haven’t slept, and I’m tired…If I fall asleep, and I dream, or if someone accidentally or almost touches the arc…I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”

 

Steve was struck speechless, his heart rendered by the raw vulnerability he heard in a voice that was usually masked to its core, and twice more just for kicks.

  
Having barely heard the almost-whisper, Clint was less effected, and without conscious decision, a reaction bore of days of wondering and worrying, his voice was loud in the silence as he suddenly asked, “Touching the arc reactor? Is that what caused the- A flashback of Afghanistan?…”

 

Tony sighed, and then seeming to accept that this was apparently happening, _had to happen_ , he sat up slightly, and answered, his voice at its usual volume, if slightly more hesitant, “-Steve…startled me. He touched the reactor, and I freaked.”

It was Bruce this time, who replied, “The arc reactor? A flashback maybe, But of what? And why now? Why Steve just touching it? Since when do you have issues with... _us_ , touching it?  I helped clean it just last month… ”

 

Looking at where Steve was still crouched down before him, hands still splayed over his thighs, rubbing soothing little circles, Tony sighed. He could explain until he was blue in the face. Tell them all about how he didn’t like people touching it because of a man named Stane. Tell them what he himself had been doing to try and resolve the underlying issues he had with the reactor. 

 

He could tell them all of that, but they were never going to understand. Not even Steve fully appreciated what he had been doing to himself in watching and re-watch that video.

 

They had no idea.  For them, _taking_ the reactor might as well be simply picking it up from a bench. Even when he explained that Obi had _ripped_  it from his chest, they still didn’t understand that it wasn’t the same as having someone steal their cell phone from their pocket, or a pendant from about their throat.

 

He had to show them.

 

His voice was snappish as he spoke, but I didn’t hide the underlying tremor to the order he gave, “ Oh for- JARVIS, roll footage file 67.”

 

“are you sure that is the wisest-” JARVIS tried, his voice less mechanical and more concerned that any of them could remember hearing.

 

Tony cut him off, his voice demanding in its surety as he ordered, “Play it.”

 

Steve suddenly comprehended what his lover was up to, and immediately jumped in with an adamant refusal, his voice inflexible, “No.”

 

Sighing, Tony turned to look at Steve, brown meeting blue for the first time since he’d entered the room, his reply both beseeching and persuading, “Steve- none of you can understand-”

Ignorant of the fact that they had a concerned and curious audience, Steve immediately replied, “NO. I said you weren’t watching it again, so you’re not watching it!”

All lingering insecurity and fear fled as Tony riled beneath Steve’s words, his voice scathing as he replied, “ _Steven._ You’re my lover, _not_ my father. Don’t you _dare_ tell me what I can and cann-”

Steve backtracked immediately, realizing he had been skating very close to the edge of overbearing and outright patronizing. Whatever authority he had over Tony, was only what Tony had _allowed_ him to take.  His voice was pleading, as he replied. “No – I just. I’m sorry- I wasn’t. I wouldn’t. I just- What it did to you. Please don’t watch it again.”

“Watch what!? What the hell are you two arguing about?” Clint interrupted, and the two in question turned to face their mostly forgotten audience.

There was silence for a moment, and then Tony spoke, “There is footage of _this-_ ” he tapped the arc reactor before continuing, “-being taken by Obadiah Stane. I’ve been forcing myself to watch it every night for weeks – trying to desensitize. It caused the flashback that led to- I want you to watch it, so you can understand…”

“Watching old B-roll footage of someone getting their hands on the arc made you flip out?” Clint asked, glaring at Natasha when she elbowed him. Hard.  But he hadn’t been poking fun, or being anything other than insensitive, as only Clint could be… he’d just been asking.

 

“Just- You need to watch it to understand. Steve?” Tony finally asked, turning back to his lover.  Despite his anger of moments ago, when Steve had tried to order him, This time Tony _was_ asking permission. He wouldn’t watch it, if it truly bothered Steve that much.  He was _allowing_ Steve the authority to veto this…out of love, and nothing else.

 

After long seconds in which many eyes watched the byplay between brown and blue, Steve finally replied, “Okay. Yes. But… I need you to sit with me. I need to be able to touch you. Please.” 

 

It was the ‘please’ that did it, and despite the token protest of, “Steve- I could hur-”, Tony was already allowing Steve to propel him across the room to the large sofa.

 

 “You can’t. No gauntlet. I’ve got you – just come sit with me.” Steve murmured, pulling Tony down into the cradle of his arms, careful to keep his hands well clear of the muted blue glow.

The screen before them flickered to life.

* * *

 

 For an instant, it was just Tony on the screen, a few years younger and a little less worn, but perhaps also somehow more so.  Most of them noticed the cut sliced into his forehead first, fresh and painful looking, and wondered what had happened in the hours previous.

 

Steve only noticed the fathomless brown eyes, the same as those he knew he could meet in real time, with nothing more than a slight tilt of his head.

 

A phone suddenly rang, and more than one head swivelled to search for it, before they realised that it was part of the footage, and attention snapped back to television in time to catch Tony bringing it to his ear, preparing to answer the muffled voice barely audible within the footage.

 

From the left side of the frame, behind and out of onscreen Tony’s line of vision, a man suddenly entered.  He walked like he belonged there, like he had a right to be there, but immediately, five sets of eyes narrowed, and one dropped away from the TV, and the memories it was evoking.

 

The stranger’s hand reached out, towards the unsuspecting Tony, and Natasha muttered low and filthily in Russian as she noticed some sort of device mostly concealed in his hand. 

 

An instant later, and the swearing was much loader, and was accompanied by gasps of dismay and fear, as on screen, Tony suddenly twitched, and then paled rapidly, his eyes widening in confusion, as fear played on lips that couldn’t express it.

 

Footage Tony jerked more forcefully, and then froze completely, and the stranger eased his paralysed body to the couch in an almost sickening parody of care, soft murmurs of “Breathe” and “Easy, easy”, accompanying the gentle hands.

 

They could see him fighting it, in the wide eyes, and lingering hand, but it was futile, and too soon, Tony was helpless and defenceless in the company of one they would soon label a monster.

 

No one really heard the next few sentences of the man’s softly murmured conversation, beyond a general knowledge of _paralysed_ and _Tony._ They were too busy fighting to remain in their seats, when half their senses where screaming that a friend, that _family_ was in trouble. But it was trouble long ago, and he’d had no one to help him then.

 

Steve felt Tony, _his_ Tony, shift against him, a minute movement, not meant to be detected. His gaze immediately dropped away from the TV, and down to the form plastered to his side.  Tony’s dark head was down, and his hands where clenched together in his lap, his eyes riveted on them, rather than the ghosts haunting from the tv. 

 

Steve pulled Tony closer, and gathered both hands into one of his own, curling his other arm around bowed shoulders.  Tony relaxed slightly against him, and in turn, Steve himself relaxed, turning back to the screen.

 

Beside him, Tony hid the small smile of success by keeping his head down, and tucked himself more firmly against Steve’s side.  It was Steve who’d needed the comfort, he’d been drawn tighter than Clint’s bowstring, and gearing up for a snap. If caring for Tony allowed him to calm, then Tony would give him that.   

 

Obadiah had tried to take the one thing Tony needed above all others.

 

He’d tried to take Steve.

 

Obadiah Stane could never have power over him again.

 

Tony looked up at the screen, seeing himself, pale and sickly, staring back.  He could do this. He had to.

 

And then Obadiah reached for that god-awful silver claw-extractor, and Tony dropping his gaze, along with most of his breath, was no act. This time, the comfort offered by way of a hand gently trailing over the side of his face, was sorely needed.

 

Obadiah was spouting some nonsense about golden geese and hits, and fate… all of which Tony could repeat back verbatim of course, but he wasn’t putting stock into what that murderous, greedy bastard said _ever again._

 

It was Thor’s voice that rent the silence within the room, oddly hollow as it echoed over, but didn’t muffle the sound of the footage, as he asked, “This- man. Who was he to you, Tony Stark?”

 

“Friend, Mentor, Brother, Uncle, Godfather, Father… for a long time he was everything I had.” Tony whispered back, knowing that everyone had heard anyway.  He could feel the chill from Natasha’s cold fury from the other side of the room, Clint’s white hot rage, Thor’s melancholy anger and Bruce’s struggle between protective and enraged.    Steve was utter devastation, for Tony, and who Tony had been, that others hadn’t seen. Because this had happened, and Tony had been alone.

 

And then Obadiah pulled the silver claw loose from Tony’s chest, and the arc reactor, minus its casing, went with it.   Gorgeous, luminous beauty, enthralling and enchanting in its ethereal paleness. No one could look away, and for the first time since the footage started, no one wanted to. The arc- rector was simply stunning.

 

Silence fell, both in the room, and on the screen, just for an instant, and then Obadiah opened with the heavily spoken words, “Your Father-” and Tony, the one sitting there, among his family, watching one of the worse days of his life play out on TV, _flinched_ like he’d been struck. 

 

And Steve finally started to understand beyond just, _Howard changed._  Because it wasn’t about Howard, it was about _Tony_ , and no one seemed to get that. 

 

Obadiah mentioned something about selfish, but Steve wasn’t listening, he was too busy pressing a kiss to Tony’s messy hair.

 

His gaze snapped up though, when there was a foreboding technological buzz, and onscreen Tony’s eyes suddenly bulged, and he gagged on air frozen within his paralysed lungs.

 

The arc reactor was ripped clean away.

 

“Enough. Turn it off. Please- off!” Bruce suddenly bit out, shoving to his feet and lurching toward the TV.

 

JARVIS shut down the screen, Obadiah’s last immortalised words echoing in the air, “Oh, it’s beautiful”.

* * *

 

 Bruce was vibrating with rage, eyes almost transcending green, right into black. Yet somehow, he was holding it together.

 

“Please tell me _he’s_ dead.” the physicist’s bit out between clenched teeth, long shuddering breaths whistling between them.

 

“As you helped battle against my misguided brother, I would defend you from your deranged kin” Thor vowed solemnly, looking as though he was itching to fling his hand out and call Mjölnir.

 

“I volunteer for that privilege”, Clint immediately spat, pacing in front of the window, fingering an arrow head that had come from god knows where.

 

Natasha snorted, a quiet sound of barely miffed anger that spoke of almost incontrollable rage, as she replied, “Get in line.”

 

“He’s dead.”  Steve said quietly, knowing as much from what Tony had told him.

 

Tony nodded from his spot beside Steve. “Very dead. You guys need to breathe. Calm down a bit – this happened years ago. He’d dead, I’m fine.”

 

Steve snorted at the most bald faced lie of the evening, but  Bruce beat him to it, sounding outraged as he spoke, “You’ve been watching that?! Over and over- god, Tony…that’s torture!”

 

The others slowly settled as they realised what Bruce was saying, remembering what Tony had alluded to earlier. That he’d been watching the footage to desensitize himself, and it had caused one hell of a flash back.

 

“Before anyone else has a chance to hop on the ‘berate Tony for his stupidity’ wagon - I’ve stopped. I thought I was weakening his hold on me, but I was only strengthening it. Never again. I won’t give _him_ any more power over me.” Tony said seriously, half smiling at the huff of relief that played across the back of his neck.

“Now, before I break out in hives- I am allergic to feelings, you know. It’s quite a serious affliction- Can we _please_ just watch a damn movie?” The genius all but begged, reaching across Steve for the abandoned popcorn bowl.

* * *

 

It was 8:30pm when the credits for ‘Jurassic Park’ started rolling, and whilst they would normally be cuing up the sequel, it had been a long and emotional night, and so the collective decision was to turn in early.

Although, Clint and Thor, who had been most impressed by the ‘legendary Midgardian creatures’, were headed to the kitchen to locate adequate sustenance to undertake watching the second, and possibly the third, in short order.

Bruce had retired to mediate, having been unable to settle his still jangled nerves, his gaze having swept to the alive and well Tony every few minutes to help calm himself.

Natasha simply disappeared into thin air, as was her want.

Steve, one arm wrapped about Tony’s shoulders, easily guided them down the hallway, happily listening to Tony babble about the atrocious butchering of science within the film.

He was just glad that Tony seemed to be coming back from whatever self-imposed denial he’d set himself, allowing Steve’s arm about his shoulders. Although the real test would be the kiss he planned to bestow once they reached their rooms.

Entering the elevator, Steve leant against the wall, and Tony settled in beside him, close enough that they were touching in several places, but not plastered down his side as the other man often did in the confines of the elevator.

They started to rise, and before Steve could think it through, it escaped his lips, “Actually, the workshop please, JARVIS.”

He audibly heard Tony’s breath hitch, but there was no argument or refusal, and so the elevator started to descend rapidly.

As it stopped and the doors slid open, Steve moved to reach for Tony’s hand, only to be met halfway, when Tony reached for him. 

_Reached for him._

It was pathetic how much such a simple gesture of trust made his heart thump, and Steve couldn't help but grin as he led the way into the workshop.

* * *

 

True to their word, Clint and Thor had cleaned all the blood, but the workshop was still a bit messy.  Different from its usually chaotic organisation, there were odds and ends strewn about that the others hadn’t know where to put.   

There was also a conspicuously open area, where Steve’s body had been sprawled.

He felt the full body shudder that engulfed Tony through the connection of only their hands, and quietly spoke as he led an ever more reluctant Tony toward the workbench- the scene of the crime.

“Its okay- I want to try something. Do you trust me? ” Steve asked.

Tony’s answering nod was immediate, with no hesitation.

Steve dropped a light kiss against upturned lips, and then continued, asking, “Do you have a gauntlet in here?”

“Yes. Why?” The genius question, his voice starting to get wary as his suspicions rose.

Steve accepted the gauntlet that Tony handed to him, and then pressed it back into the retreating hand, replying, “Put it on.”

Tony stiffened, almost fumbling the gauntlet, only Steve’s steady hands keeping it in place as Tony snapped back, “What?! No[C1] ! Just- no. That is an astronomically Bad Idea.”

“Tony. I’ve got you. Trust me and put the gauntlet on.” Steve replied firmly, but oozing reassurance.

Tony slipped the gauntlet onto his hand, clipping the manual catches to secure it, and connected it to the arc rector with shaking hands.

“Is that where you were standing? Like that, toward the desk?” Steve asked, and received only a wordless nod, so he continued, “Where was I standing? Tell me.”

Tony shivered a little, both hands flat on the workbench before him, the bare hand pressing down over the gauntlet, as if to keep it there.  Steve didn’t push him to answer before he was ready, and eventually Tony replied, “Behind me.”

Stepping up behind Tony, Steve stopped a step away, and asked, “Like this?”

Peering back over his shoulder, Tony shook his head and murmured, “Closer.”

Shuffling slightly closer, leaving about an inch between them, Steve replied softly, “Better?”, and accepted Tony’s jerky nod in answer.

He waited a moment, but when Tony neither moved nor spoke, Steve took control again,   “What did I do next? Did I kiss your ear?”, as he spoke, Steve leaned forward slightly, and planted a sloppy kiss against the ear that was slightly turned towards him, grinning when he received an surprised yelp and a half disgusted, half amused head shake in response. 

“No? Okay, maybe I ran my fingers through your hair.” His fingers found purchase in the deep shiny locks, and he noted that Tony’s tense form started to relax slightly.  

His usually confident voice was quiet and shaky when Tony finally started to play along, “No. Not yet. You- your hands were on my shoulders.”

Steve slowly brought his hands up, absolutely gentle and calm in his approach, knowing that the time for jokes was over or hadn’t arrived yet – Tony needed to trust him with this. 

Settling his hands on too tense shoulder, he just let them sit for a moment, still and completely predictable, before asking softly, “Was I rubbing?”

All Tony could manage for him was a jerky nod, but it was enough for Steve, who slowly began a gentle massage, not aiming to work knots from muscle, but just to relax.

Silence, except for Tony’s occasional hitched breath as he fought to not tear off the gauntlet and run, and Steve eventually asked, “What next?”

There was no answer, not even after a few moments, and Steve tried again, “What next, Tony?”

“You wrapped your arms- my waist”, it was barely more than a whisper, but Steve heard it anyway, and slowly he slipped his arms down over Tony’s shoulders, and looped them about the slender waist.

He could feel the gentle tremble of barely contained shudders of fear that racked his lover’s body, and wondered if maybe he was pressing too hard, too soon.  

And then a whisper quiet mummer drifted over Tony’s shoulder, saying, “You were closer by now – almost engulfing me.”

Steve stepped forward with a relieved grin, pressing up against the involuntarily tense body that almost shuddered apart under the confining comfort of his grasp.

“Now what…” he breathed, his voice hot and moist against Tony’s throat, which he was certain was his next target.

True to form, Tony simply tilted his head, and allowed Steve access, warm tongue free to bathe salty skin, and soft lips to follow the curve. 

He could actually still see a faint mark at the base of Tony’s throat, and Steve moved to worry slightly at it with his teeth, rebranding, remarking. Tony jolted in his arms, but the blond was sure it was a good type of jerk this time.

Soothing the small area with gentle strokes of his tongue, Steve managed to get out, “What next?”

Sounding slightly breathless, Tony replied, “All that ‘hand in hair’ business now.”

Carding his fingers through Tony’s hair was one of Steve’s favourite past times. The soft texture, and messy tangles, the rich colour and vibrant shine. There was also the fact that having his hair played with made Tony all but melt into a puddle in Steve’s grasp.

It wasn’t _quite_ as effective under the current circumstances, which told Steve a lot about Tony’s state of mind – he wasn’t entirely calm, no matter what his body was saying as it folded all but bonlessly into Steve’s hold.

Twenty minutes later, Tony was more relaxed then he had been since they’d entered the workshop, and Steve knew they had to move onto the next stage, and he knew this was when it could all fall apart on him.

 

“Tony? What next?” He asked quietly, keeping up the gentle massage as he waited for an answer that he honesty doubted he’d get.

 

Minutes passed, and as expected, there was no reply.  He was about to ask again, when Tony’s hand closed about the wrist of his free hand, not moving it, just holding it within his slightly trembling grip.

 

And then, as if steeling himself, Tony tugged gently and Steve allowed his hand to be moved around and pressed against the cotton covered skin of Tony’s stomach.

 

Splaying out his fingers, pressing his hand flat against taut stretched stomach muscles, Steve waited for Tony to relax.

 

Only he didn’t.  Ten minutes later, every muscle and joint Steve could feel was tense and locked, and he realised that Tony wasn’t going to relax, and if he waited any longer, he very might well end up in an empty workshop.

 

Slowly he began to gently rub over the cotton covered skin, fingers light enough to tease slightly, but firm enough to not tickle. The cotton rode up slightly, exposing a strip of skin, and Steve’s index finger wandered onto it, tracing the revealed area, before slowly sliding up and under Tony’s t-shirt, settling against bare skin.

 

Tony shuddered, and pulled back slightly, a gasp rising in his throat as he realised what was next, what _had_ to be next.  Steve just waited patiently until Tony had relaxed as much as he thought was possible, and then his hand crept slowly upwards, gentle, careful.

 

And then touched on the cool metal edge of the reactor.

 

Tony flinched wildly, a guttural cry rising from deep within his throat, and he brought the gauntlet covered hand up-    And slowly moved to place it carefully over Steve’s, where it rested against the arc reactor.

 

Steve didn’t move his hand, pressing his lips to Tony’s ear and murmured, “I’m fine, you’re okay.”

 

And after a moment of complete silence and absolute stillness, Tony removed the gauntleted hand, and huffed a deep breath. Relief, happiness, excitement, passion, gratefulness…Steve heard all those, none of those and more.

 

Mostly he just heard Tony’s demand to be kissed.

 

Turning slightly in Steve’s stubborn grasp, their lips met in a kiss that would have been almost violent, if not for the absolute worship found on each set of lips.

 

Beneath Tony’s shirt, Steve’s fingers beat a gentle staccato heartbeat against the glass of the arc reactor.

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for 'Sometime, You've Just Gotta Breathe'...tune in next time for some breathing difficulties born of a combination of fire and water :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> As always - Happy Reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> \- Sorry for the cliff. Author accepts bribes to write faster. Also threats...but be warned, time is also wasted laughing at these before she gets back to the writing.
> 
> -I'm back. Sorry all, I just can't keep from inflicting myself on you.
> 
> -Welcome to my 'As Easy As' breathing series- Yeah, all those familiar with my sleeping series (Insomniac Dreaming) know how this works. 10 stories, all having something to do with breathing.
> 
> -This is the first part of a 5&1, which will (hopefully) be posted nightly over this week. 
> 
> -As usual, no beta used. If you are so inclined, I encourage and truly appreciated people pointing out where I've goofed ;)
> 
> Feel Free to ask if you have questions- about anything. I'm game. 
> 
> Point of interest - for anyone hoping this was the kitten Story, Sorry, it's not. But rest assured, it's coming.
> 
> And most of all?  
> \- Happy Reading :)


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